


Live Free or Die Hard: the SGA Fusion

by sian1359



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007), Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-12
Updated: 2009-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-04 08:58:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian1359/pseuds/sian1359
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective John Sheppard meets Hacker Rodney McKay</p>
            </blockquote>





	Live Free or Die Hard: the SGA Fusion

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2007 Constricted by Plot fanzine. This is a complete fusion/rip off of the fourth Die Hard movie, known over here in the States as _Live Free or Die Hard_. I poached as much dialogue and plot as I could transcribe, except for a few changes to both fit with the Stargate Atlantis canon being transplanted, and for my own sanity. Don't get me wrong, I've loved John McClane since the first Die Hard movie, think Bruce Willis was/is terrific in the part and enjoyed DH4 immensely in the theatre, along with Justin Long. But certain action sequences really strained my ability to suspend disbelief, so I've toned them down a bit. Sorta. Also, there is the huge glaring problem with time in the movie and trying to make things work, especially having the crisis with the financial districts (New York Stock Exchange's opening bell is 9:30; it doesn't take 5-6 hours to drive from Camden, NJ to DC. Not in the middle of the night.) There is also the glaring problem of the identified roads in DC and Hollywood's reluctance (inability) to use Google maps. While there is a Main and a Lexington, for instance, they are nowhere near Constitution. Then there is the tunnel, which I am still not sure which one it's supposed to be. (I finally gave up trying to fix this. As they are near enough to the White House to run to Pennsylvania Avenue not that long after leaving it, I more or less assigned it to be the Mall Tunnel in my mind, but I left it unidentified. Those of you who live there or know it well enough to have identified the location from the entrances, I apologize, 'cause I don't.) I also debated and changed several times who the ultimate bad guy is in the reimagining of this. Kolya is the obvious first choice since he's Sheppard's true nemesis in the series, but this caper just isn't quite his style, being all about the money. (Also, Sora isn't as bad or bad ass as Maggie G.) Kavanagh almost got the starring baddy role, but he's whiny, not psychotic, and so only gets to be cannon fodder.

[   
](http://s926.photobucket.com/albums/ad105/sian1359/covers%20and%20frontispieces/?action=view&current=sian.jpg)

Andee Mai smiles and retakes a seat as her computer system finally starts pinging. One by one, the names and areas of responsibility start shifting from 'assigned' to 'delivered'. It isn't quite in sequence, as certain programs take longer to upload than others, but soon there is only a handful left. Then, a different tone from the speaker attracts her attention.

Damn. Ben Kavanagh wants to chat before he will transmit. She doesn't have time for this, but as he is giving them the FAA traffic system…

She opens up her IM window.

** (01:52:46 AM) WraithQueen:  Well?**

(01:52:48 AM) SupraGenius:  I'm sending you the code now

Jesus, he isn't even trying to hold her up or anything like that. Just being a typically stupid, lonely computer geek. She _really_ doesn't have time to coddle someone who's only ever been laid in his dreams.

She never should have revealed she _really_ is a woman.

** (01:53:02 AM) WraithQueen:  Yes I see that.  Thank you**

(01:53:03 AM) SupraGenius:  What about my account? 

Ah, there it is. But, she supposes, fifty grand will buy him a lot of time with the 900 numbers. And, this will be the one time his being premature will come in handy, as he'll have less than an hour to enjoy it. Just like all the others.

** (01:53:04 AM) WraithQueen:  Delivering. **

Andee sends the code. 'Delivered' slowly begins to switch over to 'deactivated' down through the list of names.

**WraithQueen Offline**

Another set of pings and more status bars change to 'delivered'. Unfortunately, Kavanagh isn't the only one in the mood to chat tonight and, of course _McKay_ insists on using Skype. Andee sighs and makes the connection to MRMPhD3ed.

_I've just sent it, you should have it. _

"Yes, thank you," with effort, Andee keeps her voice polite.

_Are you sure this is legal? _

Well, at least he isn't asking about his money. But whoever would have thought that one of the most notorious and successful hackers would one day turn into a white hat?

"We're just running a test on our security system, sir. It's fine." Hell of a time for one of them to be asking, though.

_Hey you have a sexy voice. Are you sure there isn't something I can do for you? To you? _

Did none of these boys _ever_ get laid?

"We have what we need, thank you." And once more, Andee closes an extraneous window. As the final downloads finish, she looks up to the mezzanine to see that Michael has finished with his own tasks and is watching her with amusement on his face at the attempted pick-ups. She gives him a rueful shrug before letting her own smile -- of anticipation -- answer his.

"Mr. Kenmore, we're ready," Ladon Radim interrupts with the announcement from his own computer station.

~~~~~

Special Agent Samantha Carter frowns as her computer screen flickered. Being part of the FBI Cyber-Security Division in DC should have provided her with uninterrupted power; they had generators to kick in instantly if the grid goes out. Even as she begins to look around to see if anyone else is having the same problem, her screen flickers again before going completely dark and silent.

Just like _every other station in the room. _

She can't help the shiver of cold and anticipation that prickles her skin despite the systems coming back on line after only a few seconds.

"What the hell was that?" her boss, Deputy Director Jack O'Neil, growls from somewhere behind her.

Sam has already started a diagnostics check. She can't find any trace, the hack so clean that if they hadn't had people here to observe the blanking… Her computer isn't registering any glitch or downtime at all, not even as a simple, temporary power spike or disruption.

"Diagnostics show no damage but this has to have been an intentional breach," she says after a long minute and confirming things three times.

"You're saying we are hacked?" Jack sounds more angry than surprised and the chill that Sam had managed to contain in the face of the puzzle grips her again. Especially when Jack's second, Assistant Deputy Director Daniel Jackson, comes bursting through the doors into their command center.

"This isn't a denial of service attack," Daniel starts in with his own findings. "Someone really cracked our door."

Jack's thunderous gaze takes in everyone in the room and Sam isn't the only one slouching down in her chair a little.

"Okay, open the black hat files," Jack orders. "I want every hacker in the country who could have done this interviewed now!"

"Sir, that's close to a thousand names," Walter Harriman squeaks from his station two down from Sam's. "With this being the holiday weekend, we're --"

"We're the ones who are supposed to keep this from happening anywhere," Daniel interrupts Walter before Jack can; the perfect second. "And it just happened to _us_. Get it done, Walter!"

"They're going to be scattered all over the country," Sam feels the need to defend Walter -- and herself. "It _is_ the middle of the night…" Not that more than half of the hackers wouldn't most likely be up anyway, even here in the Eastern Time zone and it being just past two o'clock. When her own hat had been more gray than white, she'd preferred to be a night owl instead of now being a wage slave that had had to come in for some sort of drill. Breaching a system is proportionally easier in relation to the decrease of general on-line traffic.

"Fine, get local law enforcement to help," Jack scowls. "Somebody out there thinks they can screw with us? I'm going to find out who."

~~~~~

John Sheppard groans as he sits up and stretches his back. He's getting too old to be doing stake outs in the middle of night and it is too fucking cold this October, to just be sitting here with the engine off. Especially in this POS car he'd signed out for the evening. The car smells of stale coffee, donuts and old pizza, and even staler bodies. He's contributed a little of the coffee odor himself even though he hates the stuff. He never thought he'd miss the stims that had been handed out like candy during the 'conflict' over Kosovo, but having to use caffeine to stay awake is a bitch on both his stomach and his taste buds. Unfortunately, the crash afterward make energy drinks and herbal supplements useless as well as nasty, and high caffeine sodas like _Dr. Pepper, Mountain Dew_ or _Jolt_ have too much sugar for his taste. So he's stuck with coffee on nights like this, when he's already put in a full day and more before driving down here from Brooklyn to Rutgers. At least there is a McDonalds just down the street; if he is going to have to drink the crap to stay awake, he isn't going to bankrupt himself doing it. That Mickey D's also sold apple slices -- which he'd finished off almost an hour ago.

Just as John is contemplating heading back over to the drive thru for something a little more substantial than coffee and fruit, the car Teyla's date is driving pulls into the parking lot. He sighs and flicks a glance at his watch. Two thirty. Not that Teyla isn't old enough (except she isn't), and not that John has any real say in how late she stays out -- or in who she dates in the first place. Teyla is Nancy's daughter through and through, with John's own four-year marriage to Nancy after Teyla's father had died having very little impact on the headstrong then teenager.

Or on her mother, after all had been screamed and thrown.

He and Teyla have actually developed a better relationship between them after his and Nancy's divorce, but he's concerned it certainly isn't strong enough for Teyla to put up with him spying on her and her current date. And he wouldn't be, trusting Teyla's judgment and her ability to take care of herself, if it hadn't been for Nancy's call. John suspects Teyla's flat refusal to let Nancy meet her current boyfriend is simply tit for tat; Nancy is keeping her own current date interest a secret from both Teyla and John. That Nancy had also made it known that she'd _checked out_ Teyla's boyfriend, in a blatant abuse of her position in the Department of Homeland Security, is probably just icing on Teyla's anti-parenting cake.

It is only the fact that the kid _did_ have a file with the DHS, albeit for participating in a campus demonstration against military recruiting that got a little out of hand, that John had agreed to check out one Aiden Ford.

Who is in the middle of putting the moves on Teyla, even though John can clearly hear her say no from across the parking lot.

He's out of his car and over to theirs before it's even registered on him that Teyla is doing a fine job in fending off the kid. Seeing her get in a good right jab doesn't stop him from opening the door and pulling the guy out, though.

"No means no, asshole," John growls as he throws the kid against the hood of the car by the collar of his leather jacket.

"What? What are you doing?" the kid, black, and obviously terrified despite his gangsta wannabee clothing, cries out.

John doesn't have any problem with Teyla dating a black kid. He is amused, however, to see that it's a boy instead of a girl, and he does wonder if her seeing this suburban tough is more about shocking Nancy than because of any real feelings for the kid.

"John, stop it!" Teyla begins her own protests as the kid eels his way out of his jacket and John's grip.

"John? Whoa, you know this guy, T?" The kid twists to look at Teyla over the hood of his -- Jesus, an '86 Cadillac Seville. Could he be more of a cliché?

"He an old boyfriend?" the kid continues with obviously no ability to read people, not Teyla, not even that John's a cop.

He and Teyla must not have gone out too many times before this. And the kid is definitely no gangsta, with 'the hood' being what he warms his ears with when he's in a sweatshirt instead of a fake bomber jacket

"With an emphasis on the _old _\--"

"Aiden," Teyla begin, but quickly follows with "_John_," when John growls and takes a step to get back in the kid's face. "Both of you just back off," she orders, before moving around the front of the car toward them both. "John, why are you here?"

Half turning so he can still keep an eye on _Aiden_, just in case the kid did find his balls, John holds a hand up in entreaty toward Teyla. "You're not answering your phone or returning your mother's calls."

"And that brings you down from Brooklyn at," she glances at her watch. "At two forty? _John_, you cannot just spy on me when she asks. Or drag my boyfriend out of the car --"

"_Boy_friend, really?" John can't help asking.

"Well, no --"

"Yeah, man," Aiden interrupts her automatic denial.

"No," Teyla repeats with a groan. "Maybe. I do not know, okay?"

John isn't sure which of them she is actually addressing with that last bit.

"I am sorry. Just … we will see," she then obviously directs Aiden's way in the face of the pout the kid is now sporting, which definitely makes the kid lose any street cred by looking all of sixteen.

The look Teyla turns back on John when he chuffs a laugh isn't nearly as sympathetic or understanding.

"Fine," John shrugs. "I'm sorry I dragged your not-boyfriend from the car. But I'm not going to apologize for caring enough to check up on you."

"Fine," she repeats, although with a much harsher tone than John had used. "You checked. I am fine. You can go now."

"Teyla, babe, let's just go too," Aiden whines before John can.

"_Both_ of you can just go," Teyla scowls and then turns her back on them. "I am tired and I am going to go to bed. Alone," she threw back over her shoulder as she starts stomping toward her dorm

"Damn right you're going to bed alone!" John snarls before realizing what he's just said and who he's said it to. Fuck, he is definitely more tired than he thought if he is pretending he has any say in Teyla's life right now.

He puts all of his contriteness into his expression and his tone. "Teyla --"

She doesn't even turn around, although she does stop her forward movement. "John, when I want to talk to you -- if I want to talk to you -- I will call you. And as for my mother --"

"Teyla … Teyla, wait."

"Why?" she asks in a voice as weary as John's own before striding away once more.

"I'm, uh, I'm going to go," Aiden pushes his way between John and the car door. "Going to go now, man," he repeats as he's starting the engine.

John nods and steps away, letting the kid peal off. He heads back to his own car but refrains from starting the engine himself until he sees the lights of Teyla's room go on.

"Well, John," he yells quietly at himself. "You handled that just --"

The transceiver under the dash beeps.

_John? John, it's Lorne. _

"Go for Sheppard," he responds to his counterpart on the night shift as he picks up the RT.

_What are you doing at Rutgers? _

John can't help looking around, although he knows there aren't any squad or other undercover cars nearby. "How do you know where I am?"

_We had all the cars LoJacked four years ago, remember? Federal mandate and funding? I'm staring at exactly where you are. _

"You need to get a life, Evan."

_Yeah, yeah.. obviously so do you. Hey, the feds have called in a favor. They're doing a sweep and need us to pick up some computer hacker in Camden. Last name McKay, first name Rodney. _

"Whoa, Camden?" John interrupts. "Why are you telling _me_ this? Come on, Evan, it's like three o'clock in the morning. I am on my way home. Just send one of the uniforms; they'd be happy to go roust someone this late. Or call Ronon," he suggests of his partner. "Ronon would scare the shit out of the kid even before the Feebs get to him."

_Sorry, John, I can't just send in a uniform. The feds are demanding a senior detective and ronon's currently at a club in Greenwich. And not answering. _

"But Camden? Why aren't the Phili LEOs on it, then?"

_Because the Feds called Weir directly. Listen, you're already halfway there, John. this kid is a high value subject or something, I don't know. Just pick him up, escort him to the Hoover Building in DC. They just had some kind of computer breach there an hour or so ago. Drop him off then, WEIR says, you can take your next two days off. _

"Great," John mutters; he's _already_ scheduled for the next two days off. Obviously this is Evan's way of telling him Liz is ready to call him back in if he doesn't handle this. Why she'd ever left the FBI to take over as Chief of Detectives, even if it is for the NYPD, John is still trying to figure out.

"All right. Give me that name again?" John asks as he shoves the car in gear and starts rolling. "And the address?" He is so not looking forward to an hour's worth of driving, although at this time of night, he _can_ probably make it to Camden in just over thirty minutes without having to wave off one of the highway patrol.

"Tell Weir she owes me one, Evan."

~~~~~

Rodney McKay shoves back from his terminal, a cup of coffee in hand and to his mouth without even registering the movement. This isn't the first piece of security cracking software he's ever written -- even for one of the good guys. He really is more a white hat now, coding on the side of the Angels by doing contracting work and developing his own software, only delving into the Dark Side now and again for a few select friends. Yeah, sometimes the good guys don't pay enough, and he's _always_ taken pleasure 'sticking it to the man' as it are, first in his interactions with his parents, then his teachers and now, all too often, his employers. They are all just so childishly stupid compared to him, especially when he'd been the child. They couldn't handle having a ten year old being smarter than the University professor. Or a University professor being smarter than their out-dated, lowest-bidder computers.

He isn't ten anymore, however, or eighteen, or even twenty-five. Corporate American might come with stupid rules and stupider bosses, but it also comes with a steady paycheck and a chance at health-care benefits -- certainly a concern now that he's left the safety net of his Canadian birthplace and their national health care system. He is getting too old to think he will always be immortal -- or untouchable.

Too old, also, to be pulling all-nighters. He supposes that might be why he is still feeling off about this last job; not enough sleep and working in the middle of the night. There aren't that many corporate moguls who do their business after midnight, although he supposes they might just be taking care that their own employees don't catch wind of their less than stellar confidence in the security system they've developed. Some dumb flat-foot playing at night watchman isn't going to be able to figure out what Rodney's code can do, even if he knows as much as how to turn on his own damn computer, so it's unlikely he's also going to go blabbing to the day shift about sneaky peeks in the night.

Still, Rodney isn't going to be able to get to sleep unless he can quiet his mind (his paranoia). Instead, he flips on his cd attachment and leans back as the stirring drums, vocalizations and strings of Carl Orff's _Oh Fortuna_ thunder throughout his loft. Some kid had tried to string together Canuck highlights to the music for a youtube video, but had left in way too much commentary and Rodney is still considering whether he wants to do it right.

The IM ping is almost lost amongst the soaring arrangement, but the little zombie/vampire avatar that pops up on his screen catches his eye immediately.

** (03:13:16 AM) War10ck: done? **

Rodney isn't surprised Radek is checking in. They'd both been contacted about the job, but Radek had decided not to take it on and had half convinced Rodney not to do it either, as neither of them particularly _liked_ Bill Lee over at MIT, the guy who had first contacted them about the work for a friend of a friend.

** (03:13:19 AM) MRMPhD3ed: yeah. **

(03:13:23 AM) War10ck: bad mojo

Not what Rodney wants to hear, in any form. While he's been working the project, Radek has supposedly been doing more detailed background checks on the company since Lee hadn't given them shit. After Rodney completed the code and _sent it off_, however, is not the time for Radek to come through and admit he screwed up.

** (03:13:31 AM) MRMPhD3ed: how bad do you think? **

(03:13:34 AM) War10ck: very

(03:13:40 AM) MRMPhD3ed: count on you? 

(03:13:45 AM) War10ck: no

Grabbing up his coffee again, Rodney frowns at the typical response, his frown deepening when he discovers he'd already drunk the cold dregs. The warm, flat coke next to it, at least, is still half full.

** (03:14:02 AM) MRMPhD3ed: advice? **

(03:14:06 AM) War10ck: get disappeared

(03:14:07 AM) War10ck has left chat

Well, fuck. Coming from Radek, it is more than just a friendly suggestion. And the refusal to elaborate means Radek's concerned -- possibly about Rodney's system being compromised.

He closes the chat window and opens up a diagnostic.

"Fuck!" he swears this time aloud, when the virus evidence starts to blink throughout various sectors of his system. _He_ does not get hacked, can't be hacked, not unless someone is almost as smart as he is, and can send a very directed piece of code, not to mention being able to deliberately hi-jack his ISP provider and address to access information and systems that are supposed to be inviolate. But Rodney hadn't earned his first doctorate in computer science at twenty because he'd been banging his professor.

He pulls up another window and his own code worm that he then sets to work. The first part of the worm will track down the invading code and overwrite it, while the second should be able to track the virus back to its originating system, where it will then leave an even nastier surprise. He's really almost hoping it is from Ms. Sexy-Voice; it's been years since he'd brought down a multi-million (billion?) dollar corporation.

"Last laugh, and all that, missy," he crows. "You probably aren't even blonde --"

The pounding on his door is louder than his own voice -- or the music that has segued into the rest of the _Carmina Burana_ cantata. It might be Katie to complain about the noise, but she generally keeps even later hours than he does, and she's also said more than once that she _likes_ Rodney's choice in music.

No, the pounding sounds… well, not so much angry as rhythmic. Like from somebody who knocks on doors regularly, professionally, and without the frenzied unevenness of someone who is just pissed off. Somebody like a cop.

Even though Rodney doesn't want to, he flips off the music and heads to the door. "Who is it?"

"NYPD. Open the door, please."

NYPD? So he is right, but … "A little out of your jurisdiction, aren't you?"

"Would you please open the goddamn door?"

Figuring the guy isn't going to go away since he starts pounding again at Rodney's hesitation, Rodney double checks the chain lock is in place and opens it a crack. The man who faces him on the other side isn't what he's expecting -- no uniform to begin with. He is also a hell of a lot cuter than any cop Rodney has seen outside of television, is dressed in a dark suit jacket, white shirt and jeans, with hair that belongs on a rockstar, a hedgehog or a porn --

"Hi," is offered somewhat incongruously, along with a disarming smile.

"NYPD?" Rodney repeats, this time out-loud. NYPD, his left ass cheek. "Oh, I get it. Sorry, 'cause whoever put you up to this … well, I hoped they paid you in advance, fella. Yeah, I might swing that way sometimes, but not with just somebody off the street even if they are hot --"

"Hey," Rodney is interrupted before he can really get into it. "I'm not a hooker. Or a stripper," is added when Rodney is caught checking to see if the seams of the cop/not-cop's clothes look Velcroed shut. "Are _you _Rodney McKay?"

"No, ah, actually, he doesn't live here anymore," Rodney stammers, not sure if he is more embarrassed or scared. The maybe cop isn't looking like he is going to bust Rodney's head for making an oblique pass at him. He actually looks more weary than anything else, and cold, but also rather skeptical -- and determined.

"Course not," Rodney is offered another smile, like this guy is in on the joke.

At least he is still taking it as a joke.

"So who are you?"

"Meredith. Ah, Meredith… Miller and I got a lot of shit about it growing up as a kid," Rodney let a pitiful frown twist his lips. "Please don't add to it."

The probably cop nods and just stands there, with that in-on-it look just staring Rodney down.

Rodney caves. "Can I see some identification?"

"Yeah, sure." A gold badge is flashed in Rodney's face, followed by some trick with fingers that lifts a flap up over the badge to reveal a card that is a cross between a drivers license and the type of employee badge Rodney had had to wear at the RAND Corporation oh so many moons ago.

"Detective," Rodney laughs rather sickly. "Yeah, _that_ looks real." And boy, did it, although Rodney still thought he might have a chance of bluffing it out, and hoping that Gaul really is just playing a stupid, stupid joke on him for acing him out of the security contract.

"Where did you get it? Toys 'R' Us? That looks great," he finishes with a full load of sarcasm.

"Well, there's also this." 'This' being the cop's shoulder holster, all too visible when the jacket is pulled away from a nicely tailored shirt. A shoulder holster complete with a very, very real looking gun.

"That… that actually looks pretty good," Rodney swallows heavily. "Ah --"

"Hey, Rodney," the door behind the _armed_ cop opens and Rodney's neighbor sticks her head out. "Mr. Mew is scraping out all of his food instead of eating it," she blathers on, completely oblivious to the tension in the hallway. "If you don't want your cat to die on my watch you had better -- Oh, hey, sorry," she interrupts herself after finally looking up and catching sight of the cop. The smile she turns on him is exactly like the one she gives Rodney when she's begging to be able to watch Mr. Mew for a night or two. Like somehow she's going to convince his cat to then convince Rodney that he should date her.

"Hey, miss," the cop turns around just far enough to, no doubt, catalogue whether she is a threat even as he also turns a smile her direction that is livelier than the one Rodney had gotten. "Just pick up the food bowl and put it on a counter or even on top of the fridge. If he thinks you're going to take it away from him, he'll demand to eat it."

"Oh, cool," Katie Brown actually giggles. She gives Rodney a quick thumbs up along with mouthing, _good, he likes cats_, that Rodney really, really hopes the cop didn't see as he is turning back Rodney's direction. If he won't date Katie, obviously he's gay, so Katie is also too concerned with setting him up with all of the guys she knows.

"Thanks, Katie," Rodney snarls back at her. "And good luck at the Bad Timing Awards," he then mutters under his breath.

"So you're going to open the door?"

Shit. Rodney nods at the cop's question and shuts it without latching -- just in case the cop thinks that he is going to try something -- so he can remove the chain lock. "Can I get you something?" Rodney asks as he drifts back away from the door and his unwanted guest. "Coffee? A Warrant? So what is this about?" he finally finds a little of his belligerence, buoyed by being in his environment, his home. He stops moving, other than to cross his arms over his chest.

The cop's eyes take in every detail of Rodney's loft with something that almost looks like appreciation, and for a moment Rodney begins to preen. He knows that most people expect him to be a slob, someone with little taste, but while he might live in a somewhat run down neighborhood, he's spent his earnings on a lot more than just a state-of-the-art computer system, orange crate furniture or the weekly IKEA specials.

"I don't know," the cop is saying and it takes Rodney a moment to realize the guy is answering his last question.

"Some kind of computer thing. The DC Feds need to talk to you."

"Feds?" Rodney doesn't think the word had been long enough for his voice to actually squeak.

"Yeah. The Feds. So come on, we've got a drive ahead of us."

"Been a white hat for four years," Rodney begins muttering as he moves to his computer system, giving in to the inevitable. "Once you're on that goddamn list … It's such a pain in the ass --"

"You play with dolls?

"Huh?" Rodney sputters, twisting around. The cop is in front of the five-shelf, lighted display case that holds Rodney's action figure collection. "Uh..."

"These aren't GI Joes."

"No. No, uh, they're not. It's a collection of the first series of --"

"The Feds are waiting, McKay," the cop interrupts.

Obviously even detectives are low-brow plodders who wouldn't appreciate that Rodney had a full set of _all_ of the original Kenner _Star Wars_ toys from 1978 through _Return of the Jedi _in 1984, including both versions of the prototype, rocket-firing Boba Fett give-away that was never made available to the public.

"Yeah, well, I've got to power down my gear," Rodney snarls, tired of feeling embarrassed or intimidated.

"More dolls?" as he crouches down to peer at Rodney's original _Buck Rogers_ and _Battlestar Galatica_ figures. "Hey, hey! Are you really trying to escape?" follows when the cop finally looks over and sees Rodney at the window over the fire escape.

"No, I was just making sure it's locked --"

This time Rodney is interrupted by gunfire, by something exploding right next to his hand. "Jesus fuck, don't shoot. Don't shoot!" he yells, unable to believe the cop has pulled his gun and is firing on him even if he had been looking to see about slipping down the fire escape. But there it is, all too fucking visible and abso-fucking-lutely huge in the cop's hand as Rodney tries to duck.

"Keep your head down," the cop shouts, though, and that doesn't make any sense as it comes with more gunshots Rodney's direction and --

Oh, fuck, the shots are coming from outside!

He is in the middle of a fucking shooting gallery, only instead of ducks with red bullseyes on their butt's, he's wearing the bullseye, as is every bit of glass throughout the loft that is exploding and raining shards down on him no matter where he tries to crouch and hide.

"Shit. Low, low. Stay down," the cop shouts over the cacophony of explosions. "Come on," and he's now tugging on Rodney's sweatshirt sleeve as they try to duck-walk toward the dubious protection of Rodney's leather sectional.

"Stay low, alright? Stay down. You stay with me."

Most of the lighting has been shot out, along with all of Rodney's display cases and the monitors over his desk, the 42" plasma flat-screen hanging on the wall opposite. Even so, Rodney can see that the cop is concerned as well as pissed, and bleeding from a cut across his cheek and from a couple of places on his hands as he's shoved away the debris during their crawl. Rodney wonders if his own face is bleeding.

"Are you okay?" Rodney is asked.

So that's probably a yes. He shakes his head while panting out a yes.

"Yeah, I know. You're going to be all right, though. Follow me to the door."

Rodney's isn't the only door open when they spill out into the hallway. Katie is back standing in hers, absolutely white-faced and shaking -- looking exactly like Rodney feels.

"Hey, get back inside," the cop cautions her. "Grab the cat and get into your bathroom, in the bathtub if you've got one, and drag a mattress over you. If you've got a cell phone, call 911 --"

The elevator at the end of the hallway pings an interruption.

"T-there's no one else w-who lives on this floor," Katie stammers before Rodney thinks to.

The cop nods and gently shoves her back inside her apartment, closing the door on her while Rodney's looking around for inspiration. There is absolutely no cover out here, only the corner down from them that houses the elevator, and the corner behind them that leads to the third -- and empty -- apartment on this floor. The only other things out here are the planter full of not quite dead plants that Katie tends, and some sort of tree in a basket, along with the code-required fire extinguisher.

"Get down. Get back inside and get down," the cop then orders Rodney before gliding back across the hall to grab up the fire extinguisher. Leaving Rodney no time to object -- or ask -- the cop throws the extinguisher down the hall toward the elevator and then takes up a very macho stance in the middle of the hallway with his gun outstretched in both hands. Two men come from around the corner in front of the cop and the extinguisher, both holding guns that appear even larger than the cop's. And both are firing, while the cop just stands there without flinching as he takes careful aim.

In the next second, the fire extinguisher explodes in a spray of chemicals and metal shrapnel, and Rodney is being pushed back through his door before he can confirm that at least one of the gunmen is shoved out through the window at the end of the hall from the blast.

"They're back in the room, back in the room!" is shouted from the hallway. Yeah, only one, unless there were actually three men in the elevator.

"Are you nuts?" Rodney has to ask as he tries to reposition the chain lock though his hands are shaking too damn hard.

"Get away from there right now."

He is tugged down, falling ungracefully all the way to the floor. "Ow! What --"

Gunfire explodes through the wood of the door above their heads. Rodney squeals and begins to backpedal away from it, then rolls over to help kick at his refrigerator when the cop begins shoving and tipping it over in front of the door. Its doors open, spilling food and more glass from the milk, along with spraying cans of soda and beer. Rodney barely avoids getting soaked, continuing to back away as the gunshots increased; the cop now adding his own back through the door with the fridge providing somewhat better cover than Rodney's shredded sectional or end tables. As loud as the cop's shots are against Rodney's ears because of the proximity, the others are louder still, even coming through the wall, which Rodney suppose means they really did have bigger ones instead of just being an illusion of his fright.

He is fucking going to die!

Even as the cop ejected his clip and replaces it from one of his pockets, he's also starting to rise and slide up toward the side of the door, as one of the gunmen sticks his barrel in through one of the holes to widen the range of his field of fire. To Rodney's complete amazement, the cop punches his gun hand through the splintering wall, while at the same time pulling on the hot barrel of the semi-automatic with his other, jerking it far enough inside that he then can force the ejection of the bad guy's bullet clip.

Rodney gives a little cheer that he can't really hear, despite the brief reprieve from more gunshots. His ears and brain are ringing and reeling. He's scrambled back toward his desk and now notes with a sense of unreality that although three of his screens are just shards and bent frames, the main monitor is still mostly intact, and still showing his anti-virus program working away, though it looks like the virus might just be winning. With some thought that they might -- somehow -- manage to get out of this, Rodney grabs for his external hard drive and pulls his cell from its recharger, then stuffs them both into a backpack that already holds one of his laptops.

"Are you okay?" the cop mouths to him, or maybe shouts, but Rodney's ears are now ringing worse than he is gagging on the smell of frying electronics, gunpowder and cordite.

Rodney starts to nod, then falls to the floor as gun fire again rakes through his apartment. His front door has either splintered enough to provide an opening for a body, or the bad guy has managed to kick it down, because suddenly Rodney and the cop aren't the only two people in his loft and why did he have all those walls taken down so he could have just one large open space and a bedroom/bathroom suite!

The cop fires back from behind what's left of Rodney's Star Wars collection. His aim seems altogether too random, and he's having to change clips faster than the bad guy, but he's also keeping most of the fire directed away from Rodney, who's trying again for the window and the fire escape.

"Get ready to run --" more orders are mouthed, the cop up in a crouch like a sprinter in his first starting position waiting at the blocks. More shots follow from the bad guy, then the cop pivots in his crouch and fires again, four shots rapid, without ducking down or away. There's a shout and maybe a thud that Rodney _hears_ \-- or maybe just imagines, but the cop is charging his direction and hustling Rodney to the window without another series of gun shots dogging their heels.

Rodney has just popped the lock when there's another explosion, much bigger than the one from the fire extinguisher. It rocks him and the cop to the floor beneath the sash, Rodney somehow managing to be on top of a very firm body. Not that he's really noticing. Or copping a feel.

"What the …" What Rodney wants to ask is buried under coughs for a few moments, the cop echoing him as they try to extract themselves from each other. "What the hell was that?" he finally gets out.

The cop picks up his gun, but must have heard Rodney because he answers despite not looking his direction.

"What is what?"

"Did you do that one too?"

Oh. The cop shakes his head. "No."

Shit. Then what the fuck just happened?

"No, I didn't do that," the cop repeats. "Stay down," and again with the tugging on Rodney's sleeve.

The cop moves around the edge of Rodney's desk, to check on the gunman Rodney supposes, and while Rodney's all for making sure the other guy is dead, if they don't get moving, they're going to be dead too, as his apartment is on fire.

"Come on," it's his turn to shout at the cop, and again he goes to the window. The glass has been completely blasted away, the explosion having taken care of what the first bullets hadn't. "Come on, let's go, dammit!" Maybe it isn't fair to yell at the guy who's just saved his life, but since it is the cop's fault it had been endangered in the first place, Rodney feels justified.

"Watch it, just slow it down," the cop cautions when Rodney slips off one of the rungs of the fire ladder and just barely catches himself as he can finally start down. The cop waits on the escape until Rodney reaches the ground, then he slides down the ladder with his hands and feet wrapped around the outside of the metal, just like every clichéd action hero. He does come down a lot quicker than Rodney had managed, though.

Rodney can't move when the cop tugs on his arm yet one more time. Katie and Mr. Mew are still up there, along with the other ten or twelve tenants that live on the lower floors, and --

"Come on, McKay. Cops and fire are on their way."

"Okay," Rodney answers, supposing the cop is right as he can now hear tinny sirens over the ringing. He leaves his feet on automatic as he's pulled along, using his brain to try and figure out whether the insurance company is going to try and rule this an Act of God or something and refuse to pay.

"Stay close. Stay with me. There could be at least one more of them -- the original shooter."

Oh god, Rodney can't help praying to himself, even as he doesn't believe in a god.

"Come on, let's go, stay close." It's all a litany of reassurances and token prodding, until, "Get in the car, go!"

Rodney recaptures enough outside awareness to see that they are in the ally perpendicular to Rodney's building, and that he's being directed to a clichéd, four-door sedan, although it isn't black. "Okay," he breathes, still too much on automatic as he's shoved into the passenger seat. He wonders if this is shock -- well of course he's shocked, but is he also experiencing the medical definition? He is cold and rather confused and --

"Can you reload a gun?"

"Huh? Me?" But, of course, he's the only other person in the car, and the cop is much too busy trying to drive them backwards down the alleyway, to the accompaniment of more gunshots and how did Rodney not hear or notice them?

"Can you reload a gun!" the cop shouts this time, maybe recognizing that Rodney's hearing is still muted -- or that maybe he needs the prodding for a quick restart of his brain.

"Open the glove box and get a magazine out of the thing right n--"

The hand that thrust through the open window startles both of them, but it's the cop's throat it gets wrapped around. Rodney doesn't know whether to try to help, to steer or to just brace himself as the cop is now actually slewing the car around at the end of the alley and then mashing down on the accelerator and screaming them forward again in the direction they'd just come from. None of which works to shake the bad guy off.

"Grab the gun off the back seat!" is the choked order, but Rodney can't, not and still hold on without braining himself on the dashboard in from of him.

"Quick! There!" and Rodney nudges the steering wheel just a little when the cop doesn't react soon enough. To the left is his building's trash and recycle bins, and sure enough when the car scraps them along it's side, the guy trying to throttle the cop is peeled off, although his head didn't go flying like the vampire and the mailbox on _Buffy_.

"Thanks, now hold on. Get you head down!" because they are going too fast for the cop to stop the car before it crunches through the chain-link fence blocking off an abandoned gas station at the end of the alley. Somehow the cop manages to avoid the pumps, running them up over some debris and then over the curb and out into the street.

The hand that pushes Rodney back into his seat is gentle -- isn't something else snaking in from the outside -- but before Rodney can make any sort of comment, he sees that the cop has just moved him out of the way to reach a radio transceiver.

"Camden base, one-double-oh-seven-seven. Come back, Camden base. One-double-oh- seven-seven."

_This is Camden base, go ahead. _

"I need to talk to your chief of detectives. Police emergency. ASAP."

_Stand by._

This is the Chief Detective Landry.

"Chief Detective, this is Detective John Sheppard. NYPD. Police emergency. I want to report a police shooting in your jurisdiction."

John Sheppard. So that is the cop's name.

~~~~~

"What's the status?" Andee asks when Bob Heindl out in Camden finally checks in.

_We didn't get him. Three of our men are down_

She's made a practice of not giving away her emotions, not by tone and not by body reactions, even to the point that she knows she'd kept her color, despite the dropping of her stomach. "Wait one," she orders back through the cell phone, then stands, cupping the phone to her stomach as she heads toward Michael.

"Michael, we had a problem in NJ." She waits without taking a breath for Michael to turn her direction. While she hopes their relationship is enough to keep his sometimes explosive ire from being directed against her, she's never counted on it. She supposes that could be why it never has been to date; she is always very aware of who is the subordinate here.

"Andee?" he asks mildly.

"McKay is still alive."

The look he directs her way is bad, but not for her. Not when the mild tones continued, the only evidence of his rage visible (audible) by the white-fingered grip he holds the splintering phone case in as he takes it from her.

"So he got away?"

_Yes, Sir_

"I did send five of you, is that right?"

From his position in front of the main screens, Andee can see Ladon Radim edge closer to his keyboard with a reflexive hunching of his shoulders. He, too, has worked for Michael long enough to recognize the danger in evenly spoken words.

_Yeah, but he has someone with him. Someone who knew how to shoot back. _

That is curious. Rodney McKay has few friends -- few acquaintances even that he could call friendly -- from being an arrogant and obnoxious genius that never got tired of proving himself right at the expense of others. Because he is a genius, not just at computer coding, he is well sought after, however, for jobs just like Michael had given him. Of course, knowing there are few who could match his skills and so everyone who needed him had to eventually make contact, McKay also takes quite a bit of pleasure in making most of his potential employers grovel for his services.

"Okay. I'm sending a chopper," Michael frowns before signaling to Andee to get it done. "Just get airborne. _We'll_ track him down and direct you. Think you can handle that, _Bob_?"

Any response Heindl may had made is lost as Michael closes the phone and throws it like a missile, just missing Ladon -- and Ladon's monitor.

"Ladon? Rodney McKay. Find him for me."

"On it," Ladon assents a little too quickly and perhaps a little too smugly for Andee's taste, since it isn't going to be an easy task unless McKay gives himself away.

"What's with all the guns?" Sora Chambers asks as she enters the room with a nod in greeting to Andee and a wary eye to the men Andee is prepping for the chopper crew.

"Operation prudence," Michael sooths from his returned position up above them on the mezzanine catwalk. Think of them as hardware to your software."

Somehow Andee managed to swallow her snigger.

~~~~~

"Oh, fuck," McKay curses as he's finally managed to buckle his seatbelt despite the trembling John can see in his hands.

"Just breathe," John soothes. "You're all right." He certainly can't see that the guy has taken any fire, but then the burn across John's own forearm is also hidden, so perhaps there might be a little more than hysteria and a few cuts from flying shrapnel keeping McKay in his near state of panic now that they are away. It had been a damn shame about that Star Wars collection. John didn't even want to think about what McKay had had to pay for the "J" firing slot Boba Fett; what he'd paid himself for his own "L" version prototype is probably part of the reason Nancy had divorced him.

"I _am_ breathing," McKay snarls back, and yeah, if he can summon up such anger, he probably isn't particularly hurt. Just angry and scared.

"I'm… I'm… I'm …I can't stop shaking."

"It's the adrenaline," John tells him, all too aware of the flood of it still controlling his own body. It will keep him going for a while yet, but John doesn't think it will be enough to get him all the way to DC. He is going to have to find some food, or coffee or yeah, maybe some goddamn uppers.

"You're just scared, McKay. It will pass."

"Yeah, I'm scared," McKay repeats, sounding amazed as well as disgusted for the obvious comment. "Aren't you scared? Back there?" he clarifies as if John couldn't remember what had just happened.

"Yeah, I am scared," John agrees quietly. It is one thing to come under fire when it is just you -- or maybe your partner. But to have to try and deal with all of that kind of shit when you had a civilian to protect --  
"Really? This is you being scared?" McKay scoffs. "I don't know, because you seem really calm. Have you done stuff like that before?"

In a hovel outside Kosovo … In a mosque in Afghanistan…

"Stuff like what?" even though John knows he shouldn't ask. But if McKay keeps talking, he'll probably be able to regulate his breathing faster and maybe keep himself from going into shock.

"Like killing people."

On the other hand... "Yeah," John answers honestly anyway. "Too often," he more whispers to himself.

"So who are those guys?" and John guesses that McKay hadn't heard his sub vocal.

"Huh? Why are they trying to kill you? Why did they blow up _my_ goddamn apartment!"

"They are there to kill you," John deflates McKay's righteous indignation with his words, although he really isn't trying to scare McKay so thoroughly again. He really thought that McKay had already figured that out.

"Why would they want to kill me?" McKay sounds quite shaken as he also physically deflates, collapsing back into his seat and the side door.

"You tell me, _Meredith_," John musters up a little of his own indignation at the accusations against him and McKay's continuing refusal to accept the consequences of his own actions. "You're the one the _FBI_ is also after."

That shuts McKay up. And for the first half hour or so, John counts it as a win. But his long day and his even longer night is starting to set in as Mickey's big hand has hit four. Answering stupid or insensitive questions would probably be better than falling asleep at the wheel. Only McKay has fallen asleep first, and as his night had been pretty shitty too, John doesn't bother waking him.

McKay doesn't even wake when he puts in a call to Lorne. Fortunately, the update that Ronon is flying down to meet him in DC, along with the rising of the sun, gives John enough of a boost to get him to the Capitol Beltway, and then the BW Parkway. Hitting the side streets of DC at the start of rush hour is enough to keep him awake the rest of the way as he creeps his way down New York Avenue toward the Hoover Building.

He still turns on the radio to give himself a little boost, and can't help but smile when _Folsom Prison Blues_ blasts over the speakers.

"What … what... what? What are you doing? What _is_ that?" McKay spits as he wakes up with a start.

"It's the Man in Black," John grins. McKay's hair is sticking up on the side where he'd been leaning into the door, and he has what looked like a faint, silvered trail of drool dried down the right side of his chin. A decidedly _not_ cute look.

"Man In Black? Death? Brad Pitt?"

"Jesus. _Johnny Cash_," John clarifies. "You know, classic country?" Nobody Rodney's age has any excuse for not recognizing Johnny Cash, no matter what type of weird ass music he prefers.

"I know who he is," McKay snarls. "Just because it's old, doesn't make it classic. What sucked back then still sucks now."

John raises his brow. "You don't like Johnny Cash?" he asks innocently.

"This is like a pine cone stuffed up my ass," which causes John to raise his eyebrow even further.

"Oh yeah, that's mature," McKay snarls some more, even as his face starts flushing as he realizes how bad that comment might have sounded coming after his initial assumptions and admissions when John had first met him. "Come on, man, I am cooperating with you," he then whines when John simply turns the radio up. "If you won't go with classical, could you please at least turn off the country?"

John gives him a quick nod and starts punching buttons. He didn't get to DC all that often to know any specific frequency, but he imagines every other AM channel will be starting on frequent news and traffic reports this time of morning.

"When is the last time you turned on the radio and listened to _real_ music?" McKay starts bitching when the weather report starts.

Good, traffic should be next.

"It's called news radio. McKay. We're due a traffic report and then I want to see if any of your friends from Camden made the headlines."

"Hold on … you listen to the news?" McKay looks genuinely surprised -- and not understanding the friend -- or Camden -- comment.

"You don't?" John asks, just as surprised. He figured McKay for a fellow news junkie; maybe not talk radio, but in John's experience the typical computer geek practically lives by the _Drudge Report_.

McKay actually laughs at him. "The news -- all news -- is completely manipulated. _Every_thing you hear, every single day, is designed by corporate media to do one thing and one thing only --"

"Jesus, McKay." John isn't sure if he's annoyed by the condescending rant, or more amused by it. McKay certainly does seem passionate about it, and the color of this type of indignation is a lot better than the paleness McKay's face had been sporting.

"-- to keep you leaving in fear --"

"Fear?" John repeats and simply raises his brow again. He doesn't do condescending himself so much as … well, being accused of insolence is probably one of the nicer things his COs usually said about him.

"_Total_ fear," McKay continues, as if John is instead encouraging him. "Fear so you'll go out and spend money on things. Things you probably don't even need. Things you already have six of, so that their advertisers keep buying ads on their station."

"You mean like computer monitors?" John remembers seeing at least _five_ of them at McKay's place.

"Well, yes, but --"

Even if John had been looking directly forward instead of turning half an eye toward McKay, he couldn't have prevented being t-boned by the bus. The only reason they didn't flip -- the only reason that they aren't _dead _\-- is because traffic is crawling at little more than ten miles an hour once you made it through an intersection, so both of them had actually been braking. Didn't mean it didn't hurt, though, as John is pulled up short by his seatbelt before his chest can hit the steering wheel. Sure, they'd installed LoJack, but didn't bother to retrofit in airbags.

"You all right?" he coughs out to McKay.

"No I'm not all right!" McKay's voice is actually steadier than John's, and he is already unsnapping his seat belt.

"Just stay in the car," John cautions as he works his own belt. His roll out is a little stiff, and he's not sure if it is the force of the impact or the earlier firefight that has his body feeling so bruised. Looking around he sees that the bus has taken out a couple more cars as it slid away from John's, and other vehicles from behind them both have also begun smashing into one another.

He moves to the closest car, seeing other people heading toward the bus, or maybe it is just some of the passengers getting out, able to help and fend for themselves. Fortunately, like for him and McKay, most of the cars had been going slow enough before impact, that there didn't appear to be any serious injuries; primarily just scared and shaken people.

Finally, after determining there is little more he can do but encourage folks to help one another and call 911, John heads back to his car, although he first climbs up the hood, then to the top for a better look around. He's already noted that all the lights in this intersection are green, now he can see that it is the same for as far as his view takes him. A total failure of the traffic control system, soon to be total gridlock, no doubt, but while being in the middle of rush hour means the greatest number of vehicles and people involved, if the entire metro system has failed, hopefully the bulk of the injuries will be the same as here for their only being the ability to crawl instead of speed.

Unfortunately, this probably also means that he isn't going to be able to just get back into the car and drive McKay to the Hoover Building.

"All the lights are green," he explains to McKay as he comes over and opens McKay's door.

"Huh?"

"_All_ the lights are green. So let's go."

"We got to go?"

John peers in to make sure McKay's eyes are tracking since his brain doesn't seem to be, and finds that McKay is frowning, not floundering.

"Yeah, get your purse, _Meredith_, and let's go," he reaches over McKay for his gun -- and the ammunition -- that McKay hadn't managed to be able to deal with when this had all started.

"You're talking about walking?"

"Well, I'd prefer that we jog, as we still have a few miles to go --"

"I can't jog," McKay starts protesting, nevertheless still allowing himself to be pulled from the car.

"Yeah, I got that," John smirks, giving McKay another once over as he gets McKay moving. The geek isn't particular fit, but he also isn't as far gone as John might have expected for someone who must practically live at his computer desk. And who's idea of exercise has to be getting up and making more coffee --

John wouldn't mind getting a little exercise in of his own getting some coffee, but the streets are being flooded by concerned and confused commuters, and already any of the street-side vendors have lines longer than the stalled cars that had delivered them there.

"I… ah …I've never been in a car accident before," McKay starts chattering as he tries to keep up with John.

From the way he is moving, it still doesn't look like McKay is harboring any hidden injuries, and John gives a silent sigh of relief. "That really isn't what I would call a car accident. It is just a little above a fender bender --"

"But the bus -- It was coming right for us! I thought my life would flash before my eyes, but all I was thinking about is the hope that I wouldn't crap myself."

John chuffs a laugh and claps his hand over McKay's shoulder. "Yeah, well, good job with that. Come on, here we go, this way," he steers McKay around a the growing crowd of milling people. It would probably be easier to move them down the middle of the street.

~~~~~

"I've got seven dead hackers so far, none of whom are high on our list," Daniel announces as he comes into Jack's office.

Jack sighs. He should be going off duty about right now, shouldn't have actually been there overnight in the first place, except that Daniel had been wanting to run some goddamn drills to test the night shift before the real thing had taken over. "Get the hard drives collected up -- are they local?"

Daniel shakes his head. "One is, a Ben Kavanagh, who lived over in Cherry Chase, but otherwise, they're scattered all over the country.

"Well, get their drives into our local offices and have them sent here, unless you know you've got someone on hand who can handle reconstructing the hidden and erased sectors and sweeping them without destroying _any_ of the data."

"Yes, sir," and Daniel starts to head out, except Agents Carter and Teal'c are both now pushing their way through Jack's door, so Daniel stays.

"Sir, Chicago is reporting a system crash on their el train network," Christopher Teal'c gets out first.

"Amtrak is flashing a level one crash in _their_ comm system," Carter reports next, trying to hide her excitement. She's young, relatively new to the position and entirely too taken with Jack's … authority. She'd also have been one of their number one suspects in this type of shit four years ago. "We --"

"Shit," Daniel interrupts Jack with a hand to the earbud only he bothers to wear.

If the other floors of the FBI want to get a hold of Jack or his people, they can use the goddamn phone or the elevator as far as Jack is concerned. He got enough of being tethered back in his bad old Air Force days.

"FAA just issued a critical alert. Their ATC net just went down," Daniel repeats from whatever report he's just received.

Well, that is it. They are obviously under a planned attack. Before Jack can issue any orders, however, the anthrax alarm starts blaring and Jack's next move is already programmed in him. "All right, every one out now," he begins as he precedes his A-team out of his office and into the situation room. "Now, people, leave your systems and evacuate now!"

With a quick input of his password and flick of a switch, he authorizes a dump of their current data streams into the secondary command center that is set up in a series of interconnected trailers outside in the nearest parking lot just for instances like this. They won't have access to everything, but at least his people won't lose too much time getting back on track to what had been their immediate tasks.

"I'm getting reports that it's systematic, throughout all of the Federal buildings," Daniel reports quietly in Jack's ear as they pound down the steps and out into the street.

Jack nods, not really too surprised given the extent of the attack already underway. Teal'c, along with a couple of the guys from a higher floor is seeing to the orderliness of the evacuation, while Sam is ushering her geeks in through the door that her badge, along with only a few others, can access.

Jack hates those trailers. Everyone is bunched up in the front one, with offices for him, Daniel and ADD Chekov from the Joint Terrorism Task Force shoved off in the back, too far away from the action.

"Okay, start overseeing a search on these data crashes and see if you can find a point of origin," Jack directs Daniel before he takes the lead himself with the battalion chief now hopping out of the first of the fire trucks that begin lining his part of Pennsylvania Avenue.

By the time Jack leaves the local LEOs and firemen to take control of the investigation into the Anthrax alarm, he has a splitting headache, one that doesn't get any better upon meeting Daniel at the front door to the trailer, just coming out to find him.

"DC transportation system is crashing, Jack," Daniel informs him as they go back in, out of the unorganized chaos to the more organized chaos. "And they've just hit the entire financial sector. Everything that's automated, even the foreign traders. All of it."

Fuck. But thank god it isn't nine thirty yet. And that the commodities market is in Chicago. "Okay. Get the Secretary of Trans and Treasury on the line, as well as the chairman of the SEC," he growls. "Sam, somewhere, somebody left a digital fingerprint. Find it!"

"Sir!"

"Is Deputy Director O'Neil in here?" Someone Jack doesn't recognize is pushing his way into the trailer. Probably should make sure the door engages its lock at some point there, but there's still too much going in and out trying to keep track of everything.

"Not now," Teal'c intercepts the man. "It will have to wait."

"That's where you're wrong, buddy," the man replies as he moves right up into Teal'c's face, refusing to be intimidated by Jack's other enforcer, the six foot three inch who is better than any staff sergeant Jack had had serve under him.

Jack is trying not to be impressed as Teal'c had three inches and at least thirty (fifty) pounds on the guy.

"Not today. This is Rodney McKay," and the guy pulls another, much more nervous man out from behind him. "I'm Detective John Sheppard. I've brought him here on direct orders from O'Neil, so if you don't know what the hell is going on, find me someone who does." The guy's smooth play seems to crack a little at the end, with his voice probably rising more than he'd expected, going by his sudden, flushed expression.

"I'm O'Neil," Jack steps forward, with a look to Daniel who is already reading Jack's mind and pulling one of the fire department medics back from checking on the evacuees. These two looked like they had an adventure of some kind in getting here, and even if he's interrupting, Jack isn't going to send him back into the wilds dripping blood.

"Listen, Detective -- John -- I appreciate you bringing McKay here," he begins, only now putting together why he would have had McKay brought it. McKay must be one of the black hats -- no, gray hat maybe, given how he is cringing during Sheppard's little introduction, but is now doing little to hide that he is checking over whichever system he can lay his eyes on. Someone on their most watched list would, no doubt, be a little more subtle and circumspect about checking things out.

"But everything has changed this morning and we're neck deep in damage control," Jack continues, noting with interest that Sheppard's wound across his forearm looks like a bullet furrow. "If you can --"

"Excuse me, I'm sorry sir," McKay actually interrupts, with an expression that says he is quite pained in having to be so polite. "Do you have anything to eat here? Any snacks around at all? I would love, ah … I'm hypoglycemic and we've been driving all night --"

"Sir!" Sam calls his attention next and Jack turns away, leaving McKay in his babysitter's hands because of the urgency in Sam's voice. Instead of saying anything more, however, Sam turns up the volume on her system which is playing a break-in news report from one of the local networks. Their Anthrax scare is the lead, along with camera shots of street after street of parked, crashed and stalled cars and scared people, not only on DC's streets, but also over at Wall Street, showing the early traders in a frenzy over the automated trading systems going bat shit crazy just like Daniel had mentioned.

"Oh, that is all bad," McKay says from Jack's elbow.

"Not as bad as it looks," Jack replies with more patience than he feels. Okay, Sheppard is a little busy getting his arm wrapped, but …

"We run drills to prepare for things like this," Daniel tells McKay quite calmly, looking down his nose over the top of his glasses.

"These your suspects?" Sheppard now comes to watch over McKay and joined Jack, his jacket folded over his arm that is hiding the injury Jack's pretty sure McKay didn't even suspect.

There is a vibe here, a story that's a hell of a lot more than a LEO picking up a perp. Jack's curious, but not greatly so, not with everything else he needs to keep track of.

"Were," Jack scowls, but at the circumstances, not Sheppard. "All seven are killed in the last seven hours."

"Recognize any of these people?" Sheppard nudges McKay.

Jack watches McKays' eyes flick over the pictures and names: Kavanagh, Gaul, Abrahms, Dumais, Peterson, Hays, Grodin.

"N-no," he stutters.

"Not _one_?" Sheppard asks, seeing what Jack had and sounding as skeptical as Jack is.

"Sir, we've got a system error," Walter calls out, however, before Jack can also challenge McKay.

Jack turns his head Walter's direction. Once more the _entire_ computer systems blanks for a few seconds, then suddenly, over every screen that had an open window with a satellite or television transmission, the same images began running, a montage of Presidents and their speeches, clipped together like a bad video project -- or like cutting out letters from a newspaper to make a ransom demand.

My fellow Americans, it is time to strike fear into the hearts of the citizenry.

"It's an unauthorized broadcast."

Yeah, no shit, McKay. And you don't have to sound so smug about it, Jack wants to accuse him, but he doesn't think now is the time he should take his attention away from the transmission.

Ask not what your country can do to avert this crisis. The answer is nothing whatsoever. Our military strength is in this case useless. Read my lips, the great confident roar of the American progress and growth has come to an end. All the vital technology that this nation holds dear; all communications, transportation, the internet, connectivity, electrical power, critical utilities… their fate now rests in our hands. we will not tire, we will not falter, and we will not fail….

"I don't know how they are getting in," Walter sounds almost frantic. And affronted.

Thank you and a Happy independence day to everyone.

"Daniel, I want telecom, transportation, any and every --"

"Christ on a crutch. It's a fire sale." McKay abruptly chokes out.

"A what?" Sheppard asks.

"It's a _fire_ sale," McKay repeat, emphasizing fire as if just his tone would clue in someone who doesn't live and breathe cyber security.

"Hey! We don't know that yet," Jack protests, definitely not wanting something like that spread around. They hadn't been invaded by the press yet, but it is only a matter of time, and if that damn door is opened once more at just the wrong time --

"It's a myth anyway," Sam scoffs from her station. "It can't be done."

"Oh, it's a myth. Really?" McKay manages to pack in as much disdain in that one word as Jack had ever heard. "Please tell me she's only here for show and that she's actually not in charge of anything."

"What's a fire sale?" Sheppard gets right into McKay's face before Sam can come charging up and cut McKay's balls off.

"It's a three step…" McKay falters, seeing Jack's own glower and Sam's continued promise of death. "It's a three step systematic attack on the entire national infrastructure," the gray hat swallows and then begins again to explain to the poor cop who might be out of his depth, but is still managing to keep himself relevant just in his ability to read the people as well as the situation.

Jack has an idle thought wondering if Sheppard might be looking to step up to the federal level; Deputy Director Hammond is always looking for sharp law enforcement officers that might be suitable for transferring over into the big league.

"Okay, step one," McKay lays out, "take out all the transportation. Step two, the financial base and telecoms. Step three; get rid of all utilities, gas, water, electric, nuclear … pretty much anything that's run by computers. Which… which today is almost everything. So that's why they call it a fire sale. Because _every_thing must go."

"Hey, listen… listen, McKay? Keep your voice down, okay?" Jack shifts until he's made the third point in the triangle between the hacker, the LEO and himself. "No one here is talking about a fire sale… not unless you're telling me you helped plan one."

"What?" that got McKay looking pole-axed. "No, fuck! I'm just saying… trying to explain to Detective Sheppard --"

"And I appreciate your concern," Jack pats McKay on the arm and incidentally moving the three of them farther away from the front door. "We do know what we're doing here and we're on it. Thank you."

"You've done a bang-up job so far," McKay mutters sub vocally, but not quietly enough.

"What?" Jack asks sharply.

"Real bang-u --"

"What!" he repeats, even more pointedly.

"Nothing. I get it," although McKay sounds surly and not very apologetic. "I said I understand."

"Hey, they didn't send girl scouts out to get this guy," Sheppard stands up for McKay.

Definitely a vibe.

"They sent professional guys, in full tactical gear and they blew the whole joint up. Now look, I don't know this guy and frankly I don't give a shit, no offence," to McKay, who, surprisingly just gives a little nod and a half-smile.

"But somebody wants this guy dead and obviously it's got something to do with whatever is going on here. So if he thinks he knows --"

"Yeah, okay," Jack nods, too tired to be lectured. Normally he chewed up and spit out guys like either of these two even if the cop is right. "Homeland has taken over interrogation of the hackers we're bringing in. I'll get you an escort over there, all right?"

"Okay," Sheppard agrees surprisingly easily, but then the shadows under his eyes are probably as big as Jack's imagines of his own.

"Jackson, get these guys to the front of the line over at DHS. I want to know what he knows."

"Yes, sir."

"If that guy knew _half_ the shit I knew, his fuzzy little head would explode," comes McKay's parting shot, again low enough to pretend he is muttering to himself, and loud enough to make sure that Jack heard it.

Arrogant prick.

~~~~~

"Dean Markham, I'm your driver. We'll be taking the sedan," their assigned FBI guy introduces himself and then gestures them out of the trailer and toward a row of ubiquitous black sedans. Dark-haired, baby-faced, Markham looks impossibly young and way too eager.

"Special Agent Sumner," the older man at Markham's side offers much more grudgingly in Rodney's opinion, his face looking like he'd stepped in something. Or that he didn't rate cops much higher than hackers.

Rodney didn't feel he needed to introduce himself, and Sheppard didn't bother, between shrugging his jacket back on and sidling up next to Rodney as they came down the rickety ramp. Rodney is glad once more that he'd been wearing a sweatshirt when he'd been working at home in deference to his wonky heater, but really wishes he'd also grabbed a heavy coat on the way out. Sheer terror only kept the body warm for so long.

Sheppard must be fucking freezing wearing only a suit jacket.

"So, is any of that actually possible?" Sheppard asks, his cop training coming to the fore as he 'helps' Rodney duck his head as he's climbing into the back seat. "What you were saying back there?"

"Is it possible?" Rodney repeats. "All right, look, I'm going to tell you again." He _tries_ to keep the condescension from his tone. A detective surely couldn't be that dumb. "If you take out any one thing the system can recover, right? But if you take it all down at once, the system crashes and …look around." Rodney gestures broadly toward the chaos that ruled the streets.

"Come on. The Government has got to have dozens of departments dedicated to dealing with that kind of shit," Sheppard protests as he buckled his own seat belt.

"It took FEMA _five days_ to get water to the Superdome," Rodney points out, bringing silence to the car other than the purr of the engine as Markham follows Sumner's lead vehicle in maneuvering around the roadblocks, both man-made and man-abandoned. It is damn slow going, and the silence begins to weigh heavily on Rodney's mind, the more he takes in the evidence of what has happened -- of what he might have unwittingly been involved in.

"Jesus, it's going to take forever to get to DHS," Sheppard complains after they've been driving for ten minutes and maybe traveled two blocks.

"Special Agent Sumner, can you get on the DC police band and get them to clear a route to DHS for us?" Markham radios the car escort that's preceding them through the mike hanging from his ear by way of answering Sheppard's question. He apparently gets a roger, because in the next moment, Sumner's voice comes over clearly on the radio transceiver system that's installed in the car.

_DC Metro, this is the FBI requesting you to clear a route to the DHS Building. _

"Look I don't mean to harp, guys, but we just passed another Starbucks and I'm dying here. I-I could eat a day old bagel at this point," Rodney finally interrupts the continuing silence. He could also get out, get coffee and Danish, finished them both and still probably have to barely quicken his step to catch up to the car.

"Later, McKay," Sheppard admonishes, even though the bastard has to be as hungry and burnt out as Rodney feels.

"You don't even have to order for me. I could just run in and get some sugar packages or --"

"McKay, you've got about … fourteen minutes to tell me why you lied to me back there," Sheppard suddenly directs back over his shoulder after making a point of looking at this watch.

"Lied to you? I don't know … What? What you are talking about?" Rodney prevaricates. Considering how many times he's couched his answers in the last few hours, there are several instances Sheppard could be referring to.

Sheppard turns back toward the front, needing to put a hand out to the dash to keep himself from being thrown forward when Markham has to hit the brakes to avoid hitting an idiot that just ran out across their path on the street. He keeps an ear cocked Rodney's direction, however.

"Those pictures on the wall. You knew those guys, right?"

Oh, that. "I don't … I …"

"Don't fucking lie to me, McKay," Sheppard growls with a little more heat than Rodney is somehow expecting

Sheppard has actually been pretty low-key and understanding of Rodney's … nerves, despite Rodney being an obvious suspect.

"I'm a cop; I can tell when you're lying," Sheppard continues. "So, who are they?"

Yeah, right. Rodney doubted it is really any cop superpower, just the simple fact that he can't lie face-to-face to anyone for shit.

"Okay. Okay, okay," when even Markham turns his head in interest for Rodney's answer. "They are my competition."

_Make the next right onto Concord_, the voice of DC Metro abruptly interrupts.

"They said they are a software firm that had developed a mutating encryption algorithm and just wanted to see if it could be cracked," Rodney begins explaining himself. "That's what I do. I-I do math base security. Here's the thing, though," he speaks out loud the thoughts that have been bugging him since hearing that all the lights had turned green. "The thing I've been thinking about is; if you are going to pull something as-as massive and crazy as a fire sale, then you'd need tons of start-up guys to write the programs. But only a few black hats to actually implement it. So at that point the start-up guys -- the guys who haven't really done anything wrong -- like me …"

"Would instead end up as names on some crisis report," Sheppard fills in.

"Well, yeah. I swear, Sheppard, I swear to you," Rodney says with all the sincerity he can muster, "I had no idea I was going to be … an accessory to-to Armageddon."

_Take the next left at Lexington _

"That is one sexy voice," Markham suddenly says. "But why's she taking us this way?"

_Unit 510 this is dispatch --_

"Oh, shit." Now that it has been pointed out, Rodney _knows_ that voice.

_\-- clear a route for two FBI vehicles making a right onto concord. FBI we've cleared a path. Take the corner of --_

"That's h-her," Rodney stutters, utterly terrified, but not exactly sure why. He wouldn't have been hired blind by DC Metro, even if he did have a recommendation by Bill Lee. There would be no reason for DC Metro to hide _their _identities. And the same gal wouldn't have been on duty anyway, not on both the grave and the day shift; she would have got off duty before the sudden crisis.

"Her who?" Sheppard asks, his voice echoing some of Rodney's urgency.

"What are you on about?" comes from Markham at the same time.

"It's them!" Rodney can only say.

"You're saying it's _them_, them?"

Oh, thank you, Sheppard gets it.

"I swear I know her. I would know her voice anywhere." Rodney feels like his heart is in his throat, soaking up any trace of moisture.

"What, no," Rodney warns as the tufted-haired idiot reaches for the radio in response to Rodney's certainty. "Don't say anything, don't…"

"Relax, McKay, just keep your mouth shut for a moment," Sheppard throws back over his shoulder, then lifts his finger from the VOX button before Rodney can further protest without being overheard.

"Hey Metro, how's your day going over there?"

Rodney can only blink; Sheppard's voice is now the male counterpart to hers. All smooth overtones and sexual undertones.

"Yeah, it's got to be pretty crazy over there, what with all those 587s, right?"

_Yes sir. We've had to dispatch all units_

"Yeah?" Sheppard challenges more than questions. "You had to dispatch all units for all the naked people walking around? Cut the bullshit, honey," his voice suddenly looses its purr and flows into a growl -- just as fuckingly sexy. "Put your boss on."

_Markham, we're getting off this route, _ Sumner's orders come tinnily over Markham's personal comm unit. _Make a left here on 14th Street_.

_Officer Sheppard_, a new voice sounds from the car unit.

"It's _Detective_ Sheppard, asshole but don't worry. We're going to have plenty of time to get to know each other when I come to visit you in prison."

Rodney stares at the back of Sheppard's head, unable to fathom how the man could sound so confident, so easy-going yet with an undercurrent of menace that would be terrifying if directed toward him.

_But … John, I already know so much about you _\-- The bad guy on the other end sounds _preternatural_ calm, unfortunately, which wins in the terrifying contest as far as Rodney is concerned.

_\-- Your address in Brooklyn…the payments on your mortgage… how long you've been a member of the nypd. And how is nancy -- oh that's sad, you're divorced. Is that tough on little Teyla? _

Rodney can see Sheppard's jaw clench, can see an almost sympathetic glance in the rear-view mirror coming from Markham.

_Now_ this _is sad. I thought you'd have a better pension plan and annuity than I see here …oh, and it gets worse, your 401k no longer exists. Tell you what, _ John. _Let me make it up to you. Shoot Mister McKay in the head and drive away, and by the time you reach the end of the next block all your debts will be wiped clean and your daughter will be set for life_

Rodney can't stifle his gasp, but Sheppard gives him a look over his shoulder that Rodney decides is supposed to be reassuring.

"Now that really is tempting, especially that last part. But I think I'm going to have to pass," Sheppard shoots back with nary a ruffle.

_John, John, you're an analog watch in a digital age. You are going to lose. _

"Or, the other thing that could happen is that I come find you, kick your ass and throw you out of your own party. What do you think about that, dickhead?"

"He's not responding," Rodney can't help but observe. "Why isn't he --"

For the second time in eight hours, and the second time in his entire life, Rodney's world is shattered by the sound of gun fire and splintering glass.

"Fuck, get down, get down, get down!"

"Where is it --"

"Get down. Just stay down --"

The car slews about, then to a stop as several more rounds tear through the front and the side windows, and Markham collapses against the steering wheel in a sea of burgeoning red.

"Shit," Rodney breathes. Barely.

"Get out, let's go, let's go!" someone is shouting now from outside of their stalled car. Oh, it's Sumner, who opens the door and begins pulling on Markham's limp body.

_Officers down, the corner of main and constitution. I repeat officers down_

Sheppard is sliding to the driver's side, but resisting Sumner's attempt to get him out of the car.

"Don't move, Rodney. Just stay down!"

As Rodney peeked between the hands that he has covering his head while he burrows down in between the seats, he sees Sheppard physically push Sumner from the door -- or Sumner is falling from the blossom of red that suddenly soaks through his shirt front. The car door is then slammed shut and Sheppard revs the engine. Once more Rodney's stomach goes flying as the car is moved in reverse at speeds it isn't even suppose to attain while going forward.

"Hang on!"

_We've got a squad car under fire! we need back up. I repeat, we need backup_

_This is base we're sending back up_, only it is _her_ again.

"Brace yourself."

That is Rodney's only warning as the car slews around again and begins _picking up speed. _ At least they are going forward again, well, forward in the relative sense, as the car is moving more like it's on a ski slalom, swinging around abandoned cars, or sometimes clipping or plowing right through them. Bullets are still flying and finally Rodney gets that they are being pursued by a fucking helicopter. But Sheppard drives like he's Spider Sabich or a grand prix racer, like he is flying himself and has a sense of prescience for how the pilot has to maneuver in amongst the buildings of downtown DC.

"Hang on, hang on!"

Like Rodney is doing anything else.

Corners are taken on two wheels, curbs are jumped and the sound of rending metal is almost as loud as the sound of Sheppard's cursing and the occasion spray of bullets. Somehow, miraculously, the shooter hasn't hit any of the tires yet, or the engine block, and Rodney is pretty sure they haven't hit any pedestrians in return --

"Hang on, Rodney."

There comes a deeper crunch, a thud and a jerk like Sheppard has clipped the side of a building or one of the cement trash receptacles -- no, it's a fucking fire hydrant, and Rodney decides it had to have been deliberate when the helicopter jinks into the sudden fountain of high-impact water.

"Holy fuck!" Rodney starts with glee and his fingers crossed. The helicopter indeed seems to wobble and needs to swing away. But, goddammit, it doesn't go down. Oh, but the shooter does, falling out of the side opening, his rifle spiraling down alongside his body. A reprieve then and maybe they could --

"Take the tunnel! Left, left, left," Rodney shouts upon seeing the sign for a road tunnel they might be able to escape into.

Surprisingly, they find little traffic this way, compared to what is on the upper street levels; but once in the tunnel proper, they do find other drivers and suddenly Sheppard has to avoid traffic instead of obstacles as he tries to slow them down from the Le Mans course he'd been driving up above.

It takes only a few moments to realize that when the street light system had been compromised on the surface level, the commuter or HOV system had also been affected. And that they are still being manipulated, as suddenly they find themselves heading into opposing traffic that _had not_ been present when they first started the run in the tunnel. Even as Sheppard manages to get their forward momentum stopped and start to turn back they way they'd come -- this time without the _Dukes of Hazard_ screeching turn -- the lights begin to systematically go out and the faint telltale squeal of brakes and tires and the odd crunch abruptly begin to multiply and get louder as drivers panic and start driving crazy instead of just stopping or turning their fucking headlights on.

They are now sitting ducks of another kind, stuck in the middle of a no man's stretch of pavement, but with the rumbles and screeches of incoming cars echoing all around them. Rodney begins to pull frantically on his seat belt, then on the door handle that, thank god, the FBI guy hadn't locked despite Rodney being a suspect.

"Hey, hey! Don't get out of the car," Sheppard calls out after him, but Rodney doesn't care that Sheppard's put the car back in gear and thinks he can drive them out of this.

"Rodney!" Now Sheppard is following, spinning away from an SUV that's clipped their sedan and manages to send Sheppard down and rolling away instead of it running him over. There are cars, pick-ups -- semis -- fucking everywhere, and Rodney has frozen, panicked that Sheppard almost got hit, that he himself is going to get hit --

"Just stay there, stand still!"

Which is good, because Rodney can't even breathe --

Abruptly he is falling, dropped prone on the pavement with Sheppard's hand heavy across his back. His mind blanks, gone white with a terror even greater than when they were being shot at, unable to conceive that there is something now driving _over _them, that he isn't being squashed flat with his life spilling out of his mouth in an orgy of screaming and blood.

"Okay, now run. Run!"

Rodney's obviously dreaming that he's in the middle of a bad Steven J. Cannell action sequence, with cars flipping over on their sides and running up ramps made by other vehicles that have been abandoned, to launch wildly into the air. It's the opening invasion scene of _Independence Day_, and he's been cast in the Vivica A. Fox role, only it's not just one big, rolling explosion, but a series of them, tiny, considering, just one gas tank at a time. He supposes that make Sheppard the dog, yet Rodney can't remember if the dog had led Vivica to safety or the other way around. Then, suddenly Rodney is now Dennis Weaver in the middle of _Duel_, running for his life as a Toyota bears down on him as if it has a laser sight bead on his back.

Abruptly he's behind a pillar, being shoved into the corner made by it and the tunnel wall, with Sheppard's hard (heaving) body once again plastered all over his. The sound of a car hitting the concrete at sixty (twenty) miles an hour is more a dull thud than the Foley-enhanced shrieking of shredded metal, a near-silent whump against the ringing in Rodney's ears. The spill of rock chips from the impact puffs missiles and dust over them, but that's a damn sight better than being squished into goo.

Not that Sheppard wasn't squishing the breath out of him.

He shoves, just a little, and Sheppard rolls away and to his feet as if his legs are made of springs instead of bone, skin and muscle.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah," Rodney coughs, surprised, pleased -- still scared. "Yeah."

"Good. Okay. Stay here; stay right here for a minute, all right?" Sheppard peers down at him, his face streaked with sweat and probably more blood through the dust, his concern and determination only just visible in the glare from the catawampus headlights of the car that had nearly killed them.

Rodney nods, but finds himself on his feet and trailing silently after his savior, afraid to let Sheppard out of his sight, afraid to be left alone -- just too damn afraid, period. He remembers that little buzz of adrenalin he used to get when he hacked someone's system or tweaked someone's pomposity. It had been the kick as well as the challenge that had motivated him, his tiny brush with something exciting and maybe dangerous, maybe against the law. For the life of him, though, now Rodney couldn't think why being involved in something even bigger might be even better.

As he continued to try and puzzle through that epiphany, Rodney realizes that Sheppard is talking -- is muttering -- to himself, being pretty sure that Sheppard doesn't know Rodney is following

"Can't be a uniform, John no. Feds called in a favor. All you've got to do is pick up a guy in Jersey and drive him down to DC --"

Rodney finds a giggle trying to bubble up his throat and ruthlessly clamps down on it before he gives himself away, or succumbs to the hysterics that he knows is fueling everything he is feeling right now.

"-- How hard can that be, huh? Can't be that hard, can it? No, got to be a _senior _detective --"

Even before they reach the end of the tunnel or even a glimmer of daylight, Rodney can hear the distinctive thump-thump of helicopter blades. Sheppard has to have heard them too, as he stops talking. He continues forward, however, even as Rodney stops in panic and anticipation of more bullets, Sheppard's only caution being a move toward the opposite side of the tunnel and slowly edging his head out just enough, Rodney presumes, to take in the helicopter's position. While Rodney might hope that it's actually a rescue craft, that DC Metro, or Homeland Security or the fucking National Guard has been called out to provide emergency assistance, the dark scowl on Sheppard's face as he heads back inward quickly puts paid to that.

Rodney starts trailing behind again, resigned to having to walk the entire distance of this tunnel to the other end, but also wondering if the bad guys didn't just have a second copter -- or a fucking platoon -- over there also lying in wait. He truly has no idea how they are going to get out of this, then has a moment of feeling absurdly grateful that Sheppard isn't just abandoning him, since it is Rodney they're after, not some wrong place, wrong time New York detective.

Only, then, Sheppard is getting into one of the abandoned cars with nary a look in Rodney's direction -- either toward where Sheppard should think he'd left Rodney, nor where Rodney is leaning against the tunnel wall, his feet once more frozen into immobility.

It's maybe five or six hundred yards from the car to the end of the tunnel, most of it, thankfully, clear, as Sheppard immediately stomps on the accelerator with a sudden burning need to improve the time tests of zero to sixty for the Miata he'd found. Rodney finds himself running after Sheppard, ignoring the people gaping around him, including the driver that Sheppard had figuratively blindsided, trying to convince himself that Sheppard isn't actually trying to commit suicide, although his brain can't come up with any other idea of what the jackass is doing.

The suicide attempt is apparently not through the vehicle, but in throwing himself _from_ the vehicle after it has reached a speed of eighty or a hundred miles an hour. Unsure of what he should do, Rodney starts toward the rolling, skidding man, but then his attention is caught by the car, that for a few seconds has kept accelerating, right up until its right wheels hit the median in the middle of the road outside the tunnel. One of Rodney's three doctorates is in astrophysics, and he is a big fan of cause and effect, of angles and velocity and trajectory. He's even already complained in his head that he is currently in a Cannell production, the _A-Team_ or _21-Jumpstreet_ and, of course, someone had to be able to set up those impossible car flips, even if Rodney had never figured out why they were used so much, since the directors had always made such a point in showing the bad guys somehow getting out of their cars under their own steam.

Okay, well Sheppard _had _made it out of the car, but well before the car had become airborne -- and the crash -- but no one was going to be walking away from the helicopter which was now a fireball of sheered rotors, exploding glass and shredding metal. Sheppard had fucking used the median as a mass driver and the Miata as it's payload, launching the car up into the helicopter that must have descended low enough to see if it could actually enter the tunnel after them.

Sheppard, a New York City cop, had taken one glance out of the end of the tunnel, saw the helicopter and the median, saw the height and the necessary angles, and in those few, those very, very few seconds, managed to do the math that said, 'hey, if I can get it up to speed, I can _launch a fucking car_ into a semi-stationary object hovering a few hundred feet above the ground'. Not as a thought exercise -- or as a computer/junkyard experiment, where you are given a desired outcome and a list of available objects and so practically having your hand held while you derive the plan and application. Simply a flash of inspiration, of genius and, suddenly, the threat of Rodney's immediate demise has been removed.

Looking away from the flaming bits of metal (people), Rodney casts around to find Sheppard, and sees that the man has fetched up against the tires of an abandoned semi-trailer -- probably the one that had driven over them. He's moving, if not very quickly or with much coordination, and Rodney breathes another sigh of relief in that Sheppard hasn't managed to kill himself.

He hurries over before one of the circling she-sharks decides that Sheppard is _their _hero.

"Are you okay? Fuck, are you --"

"Don't touch, don't touch me," Sheppard groans as Rodney crouches down and does exactly that, helping Sheppard straighten up into a sitting position and trying to see just how badly the idiot savant has injured himself.

"Okay, sorry, sorry," Rodney soothes. If Sheppard can sit up, even if he almost topples over again, if he can twist away from Rodney's hands -- and yeah, it isn't like Rodney really knows what to do here -- it probably means that he hasn't broken his back or his neck or something else like that. Sheppard certainly looks dirtier, and bloodier, but nothing is gushing or sticking out, nor is he particularly clutching himself anywhere like Rodney had the one time he'd tried to climb a tree when he was ten (at his stupid little sister's insistence to put back a stupid baby bird), and had fallen and broken his arm.

"Pretty lucky shot, huh?" Sheppard says through another groan and something that sounds a little like laughter.

"Yeah, shit… shit, you just killed a helicopter with a car!" Rodney squees like a fangirl as he now helps Sheppard slide up the side of the truck to his feet.

"Yeah, well, I was out of bullets," Sheppard laughs again, obviously crazy but also happy to be alive. And no longer trying to get out of Rodney's hands. "How are _you_ doing?"

"Well, I skinned my knee and I'm still feeling hypoglycemic," Rodney starts to complain, but then figures out who he is complaining to and bites off the rest of what he's wanting to rant about. "Whatever, yeah, I'm fine." He encourages Sheppard to lean on him as they start out of the tunnel.

The both ignore the stupidity of humanity that follow like sheep.

"So, a cop, huh? Bet you always wanted to be Superman when you are a kid," Rodney suggests and then stumbles, just a little, in crossing out from the darkness of the tunnels into the light of day. He purposely does not look toward the debris from the take-down.

"Superman did fly, which is fucking cool, but no, I always preferred Batman myself," Sheppard grunts as they climb the first of the steps. "No superpowers, but he could more than hold his own with all of those other guys who did have them."

"Green Arrow is the same," Rodney feels he has to point out; he's never been able to make up his mind which of the two non-superpowered super heroes he prefers, although he'd always thought Robin Hood a much more romantic character than, say, King Arthur. Or maybe Merlin.

"Too reactionary and Oliver's gadgets aren't as cool, even if he did have the Arrowplane before Bruce invented the Batplane," Sheppard is showing off his knowledge of things rather fucking geek-like. "Plus Batman had a much better Rogues Gallery --"

"Catwoman," they both say at the same time.

"Which one is better?" Rodney asks next, to take his mind off how slow they need to move to keep climbing, and in a refusal to check on whether it is sweat or blood that Sheppard is dripping all over the arm Rodney has around Sheppard's waist.

"They all had their individual merits, including Halle Berry," Sheppard further cements at least a nerdish past. "Michelle Pfeiffer is damn cute, but Julie Newmar's catsuit had it over all the others in spades. And Eartha Kitt is the only one who could really purr. I learned how to roll my r's when I took French, but I could never really master a purr…"

"You know French?" Rodney switches over to his perfect _Québecois_ accent. He might have been born in Toronto, but he'd gotten his first degree and his second doctorate (in Engineering) from the _École Polytechnique de Montréal_.

Sheppard's French is pure Parisian, not the product of some American French teacher, but the result of a teacher (tutor?) directly from Paris. One more clue, perhaps, that the man is obviously not just a dull-witted flatfoot.

So maybe not that stupid -- okay, yes he is, as Sheppard is resisting Rodney's attempt to get him to sit down now that they've reached the street level again and he's found them a bench where they can rest and wait for emergency services to find them.

"No, stop, this is insane," Rodney protests when Sheppard not only twists out from Rodney's comforting grip, but actually starts tugging on Rodney instead and yet one more time to get him moving after Sheppard.

"Hey, hey, this is absurd. There's tough and there's stupid, Sheppard. You've got to rest until we can get you to a hospital. Look at you! I mean, I'm not a doctor, but you look like you're hurt --"

"Yeah sexy, right?" Sheppard turns and offers Rodney the type of grin Rodney had imagined Katie had gotten -- fuck -- only eight, nine hours ago?

"What? Yes, I mean, no!"

"Come on, Rodney. We don't need a doctor, we need the cops."

~~~~~

"Michael?" Andee calls to him with her cell held out again. "It's Kolya."

Michael stifles his sigh and takes the phone. It should be Heindl checking in from the helicopter, not Kolya from the van. Kolya was supposed to be on his way to Woodlawn after delivering the strike team to the chopper, not staying around to watch Bob do his job. "Report."

"The chopper is down," Acastus Kolya's eastern European upbringing is obvious in his accent and his abrupt manner. "Bob said something about a missile before our communication was disrupted.

Michael turns to Andee, who snapped her fingers at Sora. They've been expecting some sort of military response to the chaos, but actually shooting down a civilian helicopter in the midst of the city is a little extreme, even if that helicopter has been shooting at local law enforcement -- and whoever else might have gotten in the way -- on the ground.

Sora shakes her head. She is supposed to be monitoring the military exchanges and Michael assumes the negation means that there is nothing coming over the channels that could confirm that shooting down a helicopter has been sanctioned.

"What about Shepard and McKay?"

"I do not know."

Fuck! That pair has cost him seven men so far. Okay, five of them would have been eliminated before the payoff anyway, but Michael does not have an unlimited supply on hand. Nor does he have time to send any more of his minions haring off after the troublesome duo. Fortunately, it isn't like McKay has any connection to Michael other than that piece of code, and he is confident that Andee had not given away anything other than the distinctive sound of her voice during their limited interaction. He supposes this means he should look about eliminating Bill Lee too, which would be a shame since the professor was an idiot of the first degree and had done more to help Michael's plan just from the incompetence he'd taught the students he was graduating…

It was also too late for McKay -- or the FBI -- to do anything at this point, even if somehow someone did connect the dots. McKay -- and Sheppard -- was simply a loose end like Lee that, once everything was completed -- Michael could take the time to eliminate.

"Fine. Get your team to Woodlawn, Kolya. Tyrus is expecting the back-up as it is time to begin Stage 3."

Kolya is not one to waste words or breath on a goodbye; the phone simply beeped then went dead as the call disconnects.

"Andee, get ready for the downloads. Ladon, open a link to Tyrus' team."

"We're live."

Michael moves to stand behind Ladon, though he brushes his hand across Andee's back as he passes her station just to make the contact. Ladon's upper screen shows the splice into the closed-circuit system that is monitoring the 'National Data Administration' building; by linking with Tyrus' comm system they also have an audio track to go with the video.

_Gate secured_, although the CCTV is currently showing an empty parking lot. Then, as Tyrus' response of Copy to his man comes through, the camera switches to one at the main gate, and Michael can see the aftermath of the team's arrival. Two bodies lay on the ground, one of Tyrus' men slowly dragging the first off toward the interior of the guard shack. He is still dressed in the hazmat suit that had gotten the entire team close enough, and the taillights of the official governmental hazmat vehicle that Tyrus is driving can be seen disappearing from view as it delivers the rest of them inward.

The Anthrax alarm can still be heard, although there is no sign of any of the evacuated personnel any longer. They should have been picked up by a government van a couple of hours ago, even if the local fire department hasn't made it out there yet to find the source of the alarm or any other threat. Woodlawn's distance from the bulk of the other Federal buildings in the DC environs should make it one of the last to have a specific federal team come in and give the all clear. So Tyrus shouldn't be encountering more than a couple more employees and guards who'd have been sequestered in their supposedly terrorist proof locations from the start of the alert.

Ladon's main monitor suddenly flickers again and switches from the DC transit authorities system, to piggyback on the screens to which Tyrus has hooked his override system.

_Okay, we're in. _

~~~~~

More than once, John finds himself wishing he'd given in to Rodney's insistence that they stop and let others take over. But he is mainly bruised and banged up, stiff and too fucking cold, but with nothing broken and just a few stinging cuts that probably came from the initial firefight in Rodney's apartment and have certainly stopped bleeding by now. He's not completed his job, however, hasn't gotten Rodney to Homeland or even home. There is a part of him that is more concerned with Rodney's safety than with facilitating the retrieval of the information Rodney has squirreled away in his head, but whatever his motivation, John thinks he can use a little back-up and is still holding on to the promise that Lorne made --- that Ronon has flown down to DC.

By now Ronon's plane should have landed, hours ago, actually. John just has to figure out _where_ Ronon is currently hanging out, and how he can get there. On the one hand, John is supposed to be on temporary loan to the Feds, so Ronon probably started for the Hoover Building himself. On the other hand, Ronon hadn't gotten there before the traffic mess and the Anthrax alarms, so it is also just as possible that Ronon has bailed once he reached one of the local precinct houses, in hopes of getting an update of intel there. Elizabeth's predecessor, their former boss Steven Caldwell, had taken up a position with DC Metro in their Joint Terrorism Task Force and, while neither John nor Ronon had particularly liked Caldwell, the man had been a stand-up cop. Having someone locally who knew them should help John and Ronon both in getting through all of the confusion and the rounds of 'who's is bigger' for being so far out of their jurisdiction.

John has been able to shut Rodney up about the whole hospital thing, though, by finally finding a fast food joint that didn't have lines out for half a mile. Rodney is still stuffing his face on his third or fourth McGriddle, the one that John is supposed to be eating but passed, on advice of his stomach. The medium orange juice had been bad enough, probably would have given him heartburn if he hadn't also chugged a full twenty ounces of water right after it. It's John's current hope that the headache that is sitting (spiking) behind his right eye is now simply a symptom of his exhaustion (age), and is no longer a candidate for worsening by adding dehydration to his ailments.

"Get out of the way. Look out. Make a hole, please," he calls as he shoves his way through the crowd that is milling -- and spilling -- out of the First District Station. "NYPD. All right? I've got this guy, okay? It's okay." He pulls out his badge when one of the uniforms moves to intercept them. John understands there are a lot of people here ahead of them, but he doubts many of them are anything more than panicked locals and tourists -- mostly tourists.

"Hey," he turns his head over his shoulder, hopefully masking the wince and spike of pain that caused. "When we're done with all of this shit, you want to go to the Air and Space Museum? It's about four blocks from here…"

Rodney is looking at him like he is crazy, like he'd recently jumped out of a speeding car or something and, yeah, so it isn't like either of them are going to have any free time in the next day if not week -- even if the museum hadn't most likely been evacuated and shut down when everything else had gone to shit.

John had just wanted to inject a little normality, a little hope --

"The _SR-71 Blackbird_, the real _Enterprise_ and the _Virgin Atlantic GlobalFlyer_ are all over at the Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center Annex," Rodney suddenly grins back. "Which, on a good day, would take at least eighty minutes and two transfers to get to. Course, both _Voyagers_, and Kirk's _Enterprise_, are just up the street and might be worth another vis --"

"The medics are in the back," one of the Sergeants is suddenly standing before John.

"What? No. It's okay," John waves off the woman's obvious concern. "NYPD," he flashes his badge again. "I've got to talk to you. Or even better, is there a way you can get me in touch with Detective Steven Caldwell?"

She eyes John more closely, not so much wary as overwhelmed, he thinks, and just as abruptly, John is struck himself with the futility of his request even before she offers a "just give me a minute," and is practically engulfed by a crowd that is mixed uniforms and civilians.

One minute turns into five, and there is no sign of Sergeant Cadman coming back.

"Sheppard … _John_."

Rodney obviously feels it too, the sheer helplessness of the civilians and police alike. During 9/11, John had still been in the Air Force (although the terror and resilience of the New York people during that time had been why John had chosen a position with the NYPD instead of the offers from Virginia -- and California, as he'd almost decided to completely stay away from the environs of his childhood). It isn't as if the DC people are any less resilient or able to cope, but this attack certainly isn't as clear cut as flying jets into the Pentagon and the World Trade Center. No doubt many of the people around them aren't actually convinced that this is some sort of terrorist attack, preferring to believe in the incompetence of the systems and authorities even as they are seeking out help or guidance from those very institutions.

"Yeah, let's get out of here." John let Rodney lead him back through the crowds.

Once they've managed to push their way out of the building, John turns them toward the Mall, with the vague idea of heading back to the Hoover Building. O'Neil probably wouldn't be all that pissed, as he'd be getting Rodney's intel without it first being picked over by the guys at DHS, and even if O'Neil is too busy with everything else there is probably an office he and Rodney can crash in for a few hours. If that plan, too, proves a bust, John supposes he can always head them over to the Willard and take over his dad's suite, something that had, perhaps, too much of a perverse appeal. He'd rarely ever used the permanently rented suite even when he still maintained contact with his family; he certainly hadn't been there since the night before leaving for his and Nancy's honeymoon --

In all their running around and his own panic, John has completely put out of his mind that Nancy had taken a position with the DHS. Not likely with the folks who'd be in charge of Rodney's interview, he suspects, but still someone better, someone more useful to hook up with here in DC than Caldwell.

"Rodney. Rodney!" he repeats with a shake to get the man's attention away from his wide-eyed wonder (despair) as they move through the other people and out onto the street.

"Yeah? What?"

John moves them around a corner, into the beginning of an alleyway. "You got a cell phone in that bag?" he gestures to the backpack Rodney has been wearing or clutching all the way from his first steps out the window of his apartment.

"An iPhone, yeah."

Of course he has an iPhone.

"Hand it over."

What Rodney pulls out, however, is just a regular cell phone, along with an expression of wonderment on how it had gotten in there. John certainly doesn't care, is simply glad that Rodney hasn't asked him where his own cell is, although to John's credit, there are quite a few places he could have lost it recently. Even if he suspects he left it on the seat (the floor) of his car from when he'd first gotten out to confront Teyla.

John's not sure he knows how to use an iPhone anyway.

"Wait! No, no. Don't -don't-don't call out!" Rodney suddenly pulls on John's arm.

"What? Why? I need to --"

"These guys somehow fucking blew up my apartment," Rodney reminds him unnecessarily, since John had been there and all when it blew.

"They probably cracked my cell's gps hours ago. If you use it, they'll be able to trace us here too --"

"Are you sure" and John is _not_ looking like it is Rodney's fault, even if John did want to blame something… somebody. And ask why Rodney was calling this an iPhone, since it was obviously his --

"Yeah, you should probably just put it in your pocket for now -- or smash it," Rodney whines as John takes his frustration out on the phone directly by throwing it to the ground and stepping on it… just to make sure

"You didn't have to do that."

"I'll buy you a new one --"

Once more thanking his luck, John makes a grab for the phone a passing civilian has held up to his ear. "Excuse me, it's a police emergency," he feigns an apology as he commandeers it with a flash of his badge. "He'll call you right back," he then offers into the phone before closing it to break the connection, then snapping it back open again.

"Do you even have a signal?" Rodney peers over his shoulder as John moves back into the alley's opening for the privacy and reduction in general noise.

He nods. "This is Detective John Sheppard for Deputy Director O'Neil." John hits the speaker phone button so Rodney can also hear.

_Sir, John Sheppard is on the line_, comes out first, then:

_Sheppard, go, _ in Jack O'Neil's distinct voice.

"We never made it to DHS. They came after McKay again. All your men are down," John adds, not having any idea of whether Jack had already been made aware of the fiasco (loss) with Sumner and Markham.

_What about McKay? _

"He's still with me."

_Sir --_

Hang on, John.

"Yeah, okay." He should have called Nancy first.

_They just swarmed over everything_, this time it sounds like Jackson's voice interrupting. _The whole telecom system, phone, cells, broadcast satellites_

They're blanketing every station; Carter's voice overrides the sudden blaring of God Bless America, which John and Rodney are getting in stereo as it is also coming from the television visible through the window of the corner diner where they are standing.

**What if this is just the beginning? ** begins a text crawl under what looks to be a live feed from the White House.

**What if you're hurt and alone,   
What if you dial 911 and no one answers  
What if help will never come? **

Even as the imagery of the explosions imploding the White House burn through John's retinas, he is moving, racing up the street and the few blocks that will take him to Pennsylvania Avenue.

"Oh my god, oh my god!" at his ear tells him Rodney is keeping up.

_Sheppard? _

"Look out, look out!" he tries to warn the people who are like statues, like their fucking abandoned cars, as obstacles in his way. He hadn't heard any explosion, but he's kind of turned around and not really sure how far way the White House it --

_John! _

"O'Neil," he acknowledges with a pant into the phone. "O'Neil, it's a f-fake,"' he finally stutters out as he rounds the proper corner and sees the barriers, the fence and the fucking White House, still perfectly intact. "It's a fake."

_Yeah, I see it. I see it too. _

Blocks away from one another, but back again on the same street with the White House, John guesses somewhere in between them.

_Thank God. I --_

"O'Neil? Shit!" John pulls the abruptly dead phone from his ear, the **no signal **text fucking mocking him.

"Wrote one little piece of code and the whole world falls apart. This is virtual terrorism."

"What?" John turns to Rodney, still reeling from the adrenalin blast and what he'd first thought had happened, from the race to prove that it hadn't happened … yet.

"It's crazy," Rodney is pacing around John, puffing and panting from his own run, but oblivious to how much it has likely taken out of him.

"The first time I heard the concept of a fire sale I actually thought it would be cool if anyone every really did it. Just …hit the reset button," Rodney finally stops and looks John directly in the eyes. "Melt the system just for fun."

"Fun? It's not a system," John growls back, suddenly furious with McKay and all of the people like him. "It's a country. You're talking about _people_. A whole country full of people, sitting at home, alone and most likely scared to death. So if you're done with your little nostalgic moment of anarchy, maybe you could _think_ a little bit, use that vaunted _genius_ you claim to have, and help me catch these guys," he snarls, moving up into McKay's personal space.

"Just help me," he backs off a step and in tone just a little when he catches the flash of fear in McKay's eyes. No, he doesn't want Rodney afraid of him.

"Just put yourself in their shoes. If this is _your_ fire sale --"

"Okay, okay." Rodney is still puffing, but no longer waving his hands like a magician trying to conjure a rabbit out of thin air.

"If you are running things, what would be your next move?" John prods much more gently.

"Okay, uh. Well the whole point of a-a fire sale is that it is-is mostly done by remote."

Rodney seems to be more speaking out loud now than to John directly.

"But-but not everything is run completely on line. Ah, ah major utilities are not," he shoots a glance John's direction. "They run by close circuit, so …you can breach the security up to a certain point. But um, to shut it down you would have to physically go there; you'd have to show up. And, and ah… You know what? Give me that guy's phone."

"The phones don't work," John reminds him, his earlier anger swamped by the magnitude of Rodney's thinking and his ability to switch tracks so abruptly. "They're all dead."

"No, the phones are fine. It's the network that's dead," Rodney says with an obvious confidence in his thinking. "I just have to reprogram it to link into the old SATCOMs. Hackers surf them all the time. That's probably what these guys are using to talk to each other."

"How do you _know_ all this stuff?"

That brought Rodney's head up like a deer in headlights, but John isn't accusing him of anything, and he tries to make sure his expression shows that.

"I have three PhDs, actually," and Rodney seems almost embarrassed.

"There's a lot of stuff rattling around up here, including a few plans for taking over the world, from when I is thinking about becoming a… an evil genius."

"Yeah, Lex Luthor would have nothing on you, I suspect."

That got John an actual grin, tired and lopsided, but still something not quite so stricken, and Rodney's breathing is also returning to something toward normal.

"Okay, so they've already done stage one and two, transportation, financial and telecomm. Stage three is taking control of the national power grid," he reminds John. "Gas and electric is divided into three zones, right? Eastern, central and western, each with a primary hub. Here."

Damn if Rodney hasn't made some sort of connection to the internet and a website that shows a partial map of the Eastern US on the civilian's phone. "What is that? What are we looking at?"

"That is the eastern hub. Now you take this out, it wipes out the power for the entire eastern corridor, even up into parts of Canada because of the strain the rest of system will undergo. Electricity goes out everywhere, and you've also taken down most landlines as few people have hard wired phones anymore. Television and radio transmissions too, the internet... But again, you'd have to do this manually, so despite your delusions of grandeur, you're not going to be able to do it from the heart of your secret lair."

"Well then, let's go." John pulls again on Rodney's arm, confident that as he's followed every other time John has insisted, this time won't be any different.

Except this time Rodney digs in his heels and proves that while maybe he doesn't particularly subscribe to any noticeable exercise regime, not all of the twenty or so pounds he has on John are simply fat.

"What, to West Virginia? I-I… No, honestly, Sheppard, I don't think I could handle any more people trying to kill me."

But John won't -- can't -- take no for an answer. Not when Rodney holds all the answers.

"You get used to it."

~~~~~

"We're a go," Ladon reports from his station.

"Launch the downloads," Michael orders.

"Nothings happening," Torrell whines from his station.

"Be patient."

"I don't know. It's not responding!"

"Wait for it," Michael says with a lot more patience than he feels. But it is never a good idea let your subordinates see you less than calm, not when you need them to stay calm and focused too. "See?" he then points out a couple of minutes later when all of the screens in the computer room switch to the names and accounts that Tyrus' group has hooked Michael into. "There you go. You're set for the next … six hours or so."

After seeing that Torrell isn't going to lose his head any longer, Michael heads out of the building and sees with satisfaction that the second helicopter has been prepped, now reading FBI on its side, to go with the uniforms the pilot, Andee and her team are now sporting as they finished their own preparations.

"And here you go, Agent …. Dovark," Sora offers Andee the identification badge that is the main reason Michael has hired her. "I guess that's you."

Andee holds up the badge for Michael's perusal, then lifts her chin for Michael's kiss.  
Torrell actually looks embarrassed by the display as he come out to catch Michael's attention -- Sora just looks wistful -- so Michael leaves Torrell standing there, ignored, while he fusses with the tac vest that completes Andee's outfit, along with the ubiquitous FBI ball cap she stuffs over her gloriously auburn hair.

"Kolya has reached Woodlawn to provide security for Tyrus," Torrell says quickly when, at last, Michael turns his head.

"Very well. Time to move. Let's keep them chasing their tails."

~~~~~

Sam can't keep her eyes off the news reports streaming into two different windows on her monitor. After the scare with the White House and the commandeering of the airwaves, she is tasked with trying to track down that pirate signal, but so far it has proven as elusive as whoever is behind all of this crap. By now, the Middle Eastern terrorist groups should have been falling all over one another trying to claim credit, but they aren't. Sam's pretty sure that Jack is thinking home-grown, especially with the use of all their home-grown hackers. China, Korea and Russia certainly have the geeks and maybe the money to handle something like this and, of course, enough old style spies who might still want to take their crack at the US, but she knew most of these local geeks that they'd used -- some known personally in her former life -- wouldn't have gotten into bed with outsiders. They want anarchy, not foreign domination.

"FAA just grounded all flights," Teal'c reports to Jack from the station he took over in the back.

"Good," is Jack's response, and for a moment Sam balks, but then she thinks it through.

It is better that _they_ have control over the skies, even if that means grounding everything, because that also would mean they can take all the steps necessary to get every plane down and safe instead of having the same kind of traffic chaos that had hit several major cities also spread to air traffic control. So far the loss of life had been minimal for the level of disarray, but conflicting signals to planes -- even the typical 737 still carried one hundred and twenty or more people.

"Sir," Daniel seemed to be following on Teal'c heels again, even if he was getting his intel over his comm. "We finally have complete access back over our system networks, the phones, power grids, water, nuclear --"

"Hey, excuse me, Richard Woolsey, NSA." A man who looks more like a bean counter than a spook, suddenly enters into the trailer.

Sam thought Jack had ordered that damn door locked again.

"Nancy Sheppard, DHS, liaison," a second stranger introduces herself, a perfectly dressed and coifed Barbie doll, who's appearance causes Sam to pat her own, sweat-matted and limp pixie cut before she laughs at herself for her grossly misplaced concern.

"White House made the call. Anything you need, we're here to help."

"Help, wow, that's great," Jack greets them with a not terribly masked tone of disgust mixed with sarcasm.

"We're going to need some work space for people," the Woolsey guy continues, seemingly oblivious to the tenor of Jack's response. "What can you do for us?"

Jack drops any hint of a mask or civility. "Well, as you can see, we're using the space," he gestures to the systems that Sam, Teal'c, Walter and the rest of the guys occupy. "There might be something a building or two over, behind the porta-potties. Or you two can stand in the corner over there," with a one fingered gesture toward the back of the room, "and … liaise. If I need something, I'll just wave."

Woolsey immediately looks like he swallowed a bee, but before he can take total umbrage, Walter interrupts with yet more bad news.

"Sir, wireless networks are definitely all down. And I think they got the landlines too."

So it wasn't just Sheppard's phone crapping out.

"Shit," Jack swore out loud, no longer bothering to keep his frustration silent. "I don't care how, but you find me a line, Walter. I -- Okay, what did you find?" he switches his attention suddenly as the fire chief in charge of checking out their building pushes his own way through the might-as-well-be-a-revolving door.

This front room is getting pretty crowded.

"We've swept the whole building, Sir. Seems clean. We could sweep again, but I don't think we're going to find anything."

"Don't bother, don't bother," Jack waves him off. "It's a fake. This guy is fucking playing us," he mutters, leaving Sam to wonder if Jack has a suspicion as to who is behind everything, even though he hasn't given even Daniel any hint of a specific target.

"Okay, let's get everyone back inside to the crisis center," speaking of Daniel. "Right now!" with a clap of Daniel's hands.

"Let's open it back up," Jack confirms.

~~~~~

Rodney isn't sure why he's surprised to see Sheppard break into a car using the butt of his gun. But so far Sheppard has been pretty much a boy scout despite what is going on, other than taking that guys' cell phone -- okay, and stealing that other car, which he'd then blown up.

"Come on, get in," Rodney is ordered as Sheppard opens his door.

"Door's lock," Rodney can't keep the smugness out, still a little stung by Sheppard's earlier anger even though it's wavering with the appreciate of Rodney's knowledge that Sheppard has also been showing. "Unless you have an extra gun that I can use to unlock it -- Hey, hey, don't do that!" Rodney tries to stop Sheppard as he bends down, obviously intending to hotwire the car.

"Hey, no! You're going to disable it," he tries again. But Sheppard isn't in sync with Rodney this time and Rodney, desperately, picks up a loose trash can, slamming it into the car's front bumper and setting off the airbags.

"Jesus Christ!" Sheppard exclaims, coming up from the ground like a scalded cat.

"Wow, that worked. Did you see that?" Rodney asks, before catching the look Sheppard is giving him -- and the patch on the right side of Sheppard's face suddenly red and flushed enough to be visible through the serious five o'clock shadow Sheppard is sporting. "Sorry about that, I didn't know they would come out so fast."

Sheppard says nothing, simply punches down the airbag coming out of the steering wheel and then ripping it free before getting in the car.

In addition to setting off the airbags, the door locks automatically released. Rodney quickly opens up his own door since Sheppard looks like this time he might really leave Rodney behind. "Ah, how did you do yours?" Rodney asks with a tug on his own airbag that not only didn't deflate, but certainly isn't coming free.

That earns Rodney another dark look and a sigh.

"Are you all right? What did you -- Ah, did it hit you a little bit?" Yeah, okay, it hadn't been anything of Sheppard's doing, but it also wasn't as if Rodney tried to catch Sheppard up in it intentionally. He keeps tugging on the airbag, finally getting it torn free with a force that slams him back against his seat. He then manfully ignores the hint of a smile that plays around Sheppard's lips even if it makes him want to smile himself, before noticing that the other man is bending down under the steering wheel again.

"No, listen do-don't-- Please don't touch those, okay?" Rodney reaches over and closes his hands around Sheppard's fingers and the twist of wires he is about to bring together. "I know what I'm doing. I've done this before. I mean, I-I've read about it," Rodney stutters, but this admission only gets him a longer twitch of a smile, and then a look that clearly says: _well, get one with it then, genius. _

Rodney pushes the button above the red LED over the radio.

_Road assist, we've detected an air bag deployment. _

"Yes, um. Please, we just hit a … light pole," Rodney quickly looks around; damn few trees on the streets of DC, and it isn't like there isn't a GPS locater installed through the service too. "And my friend is having a heart attack. I think he's going to die," Rodney continues. "You need to help us!"

_Hold while we contact emergency services. _

"No no no, he's dying!" Rodney didn't really have to work very hard to instill a tone of panic in his voice; he's only just been staving it off for _hours_. "Please listen to me. I can get him to a hospital. I can drive, I'm fine, but I can't find the fucking key. You've got to start the car for us, please!"

_Your name please? _

"My name is Frank. And my friend's name is… is… Paul Davis," Rodney finds the car's registration after a few frantic moments. "Please, we need your help. Okay? We need your help."

_Emergency services are on their way. _

"No, no, hold on, just listen to me!" Rodney loads a little of the fire he'd perfected on grad students too many years back. He absolutely refuses to look toward Sheppard again, who is nearly doubled up with laughter, although at least the man is able to keep silent. "Listen to me ma'am. What is your name?"

_Dolores. _

"Okay Dolores, I don't know if you've bothered to turn on the radio today, but the streets are nearly impassible. I don't have time to wait for _emergency services_. My friend's going to die and it's going to be your fault unless you start the goddamn car right now --"

The engine starts, shutting Sheppard up in utter amazement.

"Thank you, Dolores," Rodney says only a little smugly he's sure, this time. "I'll make sure I send a letter for your file to your boss." He flicks the assistance service button off to anything else she might have said.

"So, pass me the cell, I've got to call the Warlock," he instructs the still amazed Sheppard.

"The what?"

"The who, actually. The Warlock. He's a Czech Jedi, almost as good as I am in cyberspace."

That just earns him a shake of the head, but that's okay. Rodney wonders if he should offer to drive; he hadn't got much sleep the night before but he had some, whereas Sheppard has to be running on fumes and orange juice. He is also going to have to make sure Sheppard stops somewhere so they can get more food, as the faint tremble in Rodney's hands might not just be from another cocktail of adrenalin and exhaustion.

"That was pretty good back there, Rodney," Sheppard suddenly complements him, despite Rodney having just sat there in a daze for the last … geez, half an hour.

"Thanks," he mutters into his chest, trying to turn his attention back to working the cell phone before abruptly realizing that he isn't even getting anything from the SATCOM anymore. The impossibility of that finally gets through to him enough that he checks the battery, and sees that the phone had powered down sometime while he'd just been sitting there.

"What's the matter? Nothing more to complain about?" Sheppard prods in much better humor than he had any right to be feeling.

"Well, the fucking cell phone's battery is dead, but …"

"But what, Rodney? What's wrong?"

"I'm not like you," Rodney twists to face the other man as much as he can without removing the seat belt. "I can't… I can't _do_ this shit!"

"What do you mean? Shit like what?" Sheppard turns his head enough to see that Rodney isn't just whining or tired, to see and, surprisingly -- gratefully -- take on an expression of real concern instead of laughing at Rodney's cowardess.

"Like heroic," Rodney spits. "I'm not brave like you are. I'm not that kind of guy."

"I'm nobody's hero," Sheppard shakes his head with a scowl.

"No? You saved my life, like, ten times in the last ten hours," Rodney protests, unsure if Sheppard is just being modest or stupidly nonchalant, like saving the life of someone like Rodney isn't worth taking pride in.

"Just doing my job, that's all." Sheppard actually sounds a little mad.

"Hell of a job," Rodney mutters sub vocally.

"You know what you get for being a hero, Rodney?"

Oops, he really had to work on his sub vocalizations.

"You get nothing. You get shot at. You get a pat on your back; maybe a stupid medal or two; a whole passel full of that-a-boys and blah blah blahs." Sheppard shoots another glance Rodney's direction, but doesn't really seem to be looking at him.

"You get divorced and a wife who only remembers your name when she needs something. You inherit a really great kid, who is embarrassed by you and doesn't want to talk to you. You get to eat a fucking lot of meals all by yourself -- or with a partner who is just as lonely and miserable. Trust me, buddy, no one wants to be _that_ guy."

"Then why are you doing this?" Rodney asks, not understanding and really wanting to know. How could someone obviously intelligent, ambitious and, yeah, fucking good-looking enough that he probably wouldn't have had to lift a finger to get people to do something for him, decide to become a cop or a soldier or a fireman. To put themselves in harms way, in front of people who rarely appreciated it, for what Rodney understands is absolutely shit pay --

"Right now? Because there's nobody else _to_ do it. Believe me, if there was somebody else, if I could pawn this off on O'Neil or anyone else, I would damn well let them. But there's not, so I'm -- so _we're_ \-- doing it."

"Ah. And that's what makes you _that guy_, John."

~~~~~

"Contact Michael," Andee instructs her pilot as he powers down and she cracks open her door, only to pull back inside for a moment as the coolness of the evening's temperature catches her off guard. "Tell them we've landed." She'd rather be notifying Michael herself, but she has her team to sort through, and a guard to get around.

"Ma'am, you're not authorized to be here."

"FBI, we suspect there has been a security breach," she flashes her badge, and signals her men to spread out.

"Still, Ma'am, you can't land here without authorization. You –"

Andee's foot flashes out and up, catching the guard against the hint of flesh between his chin and the top of his tac vest, crushing his throat instantly. Payne catches the body as it begins to collapse, letting Andee reach back down and pick up the cap she's lost. There should be another guard -- maybe as many as three given the emergency procedures that should have been enacted. But she and her team have better weapons she can tell as Pranos relieves the body of anything useful, as well as surprise on their side, even though the guards should be prepared for just this type of attack. It didn't matter how many drills the Government put their employees through, though, no one really believes that anyone would try something so simple and basic as a suicide bomb or a direct assault here on US soil.

Three guards, and three bullets to take care of them. Andee directs her team to start a search, just in case there is someone unexpected wandering around, while she begins to move up to the control room. Under emergency status, under Terror Alert Orange, there should be only two operators here, one to keep track of the systems, and one to provide back-up, because the Government didn't even trust their own and thought that anyone could be subverted. On the one hand, they are right, but on the other, computer systems are even easier to subvert, and the Government stupidly still thinks they are inviolate.

"What the hell are you doing? This whole floor is restricted access," the idiot tries to argue with her instead of instantly hitting the alert button at his terminal. Not that anyone will be coming to his aid, of course, but he could have sent an alert out through the communications system that is hard-wired to the other two hubs, to the DHS, the FBI and, in just a few more seconds after she pushes the body aside, to Michael's command center.

Not that even that warning would have mattered, since other teams were taking out the other hubs at the same time.

"I'm in," she calls Michael on her cell.

_GOOD_ he praises her. _SHUT IT DOWN_

She punches a few more keys on her rubber, roll-up keyboard, and then leans across to the internal system and activates the manual override. It won't be instantaneous of course; it isn't like in the movies with one master switch that turns off the entire East Coast. Too much power is already routing through the system, governed as much by substations and power relays that will also begin to fail, one after the other in a cascade that should take fifteen or twenty minutes.

For a moment Andee wishes she was still been in the air, able to watch as this part of the world goes totally dark, now that the sun is setting along with the US's supremacy. But there is a certain elegance to the data stream of cascading failures she'd brought about, and this way she won't be disappointed by the reality not quite matching her imagination.

"We've got company," Pranos scowls as her team contacts her over her headset that they've finished their exploration, calling Andee's attention to one of the CCTV screens that shows what he's seen.

Good God; McKay and, she assumes, the infamous NYPD Detective, John Sheppard. McKay obviously is almost as much of a genius as he claims to be to have come here -- or Sheppard is one lucky son of a bitch.

"Take them out."

~~~~~

"Stay here," John orders Rodney as he slowly gets out of the car, not really expecting Rodney to follow the order and so not saying anything when the geek becomes his shadow. The FBI helicopter looks promising, except there hasn't been anyone to stop them as they came through the front gate, and there still isn't anyone moving or challenging them as he takes a closer look. No pilot -- no one at all -- so there will be at least two 'agents' on hand, more, most likely, given the number of headsets that have been casually dropped on the seats instead of being hung back up in their holders.

Signaling Rodney to stay put, John sidles up to the corner of the guard shack and takes another quick look, seeing the guard that should have been after them lying limply on the floor. His neck is at an odd angle and his eyes are still open and staring into nothing. "Guess you are right, Rodney," he whispers to himself, though he really hadn't been doubting Rodney's conjecture that this power hub would be a next target of opportunity.

John darts in to see if the guard is really dead despite his appearance, or if he's still armed, but about the last, someone had already beaten him to it and, yeah, the guard is really dead. Bitch about the weapon; he has only two full clips left, plus whatever is still in his gun -- which he'd better check before he needs to use it, only to find that he's run out. With another signal to Rodney for him to come to the shack, John quickly pops the clip and counts while he waits, deciding to put in one of the full ones and knowing he'll need to rearm himself with one of the bad guys' guns if he is going to get into another firefight.

God, but he hopes he won't have to go through another firefight.

"Oh, that's awful," Rodney gulps when three more bodies greet them inside the power building proper.

As with the other, John kneels down to make sure they are dead, although he knew that they were before finding no pulse beneath his fingertips. Too much blood and offal, the smell is nearly overpowering, but at least it's kept McKay away and just maybe also the guy's inevitable nightmares won't include actual dead bodies in full Technicolor. This time _he_ gets lucky, though. One of the guards had a back-up gun in an ankle holster, its presence meaning the bad guys had gotten sloppy or rushed.

"So how will they shut down the power grid?" he asks after tucking the second piece in his waistband at the small of his back.

"What?"

"Come on, McKay, what are they doing, and where are they doing it?" The information will be useful, although John figures they'll get those answers soon enough even if Rodney doesn't have anything to offer. Getting Rodney to think about the answers instead of dwelling on the dead bodies or the danger has a use even greater, however.

"Oh, ah, central control room. There will be a central control room," McKay repeats as he follows John past the bodies and then takes the lead when he catches sight of a rather extensive terminal and monitor station.

"Okay, fourth floor, fourth floor," he shows John with his finger tracing over the screen after having worked more of his magic.

"Great. Let's go."

There are noises here, the thumping and whirring sounds of old and ponderous equipment, the inevitable whistling of wind coming through windows that aren't quite sealed properly due to age and lack of repair funds, and the general rumbles and creaks of a building settling as the night's cold start to take affect. At the same time, however, an uncomfortable silence has settled around them, a profound absence of voices even though John really has no idea how many people should be here during the coming night shift. At least there haven't been any more bodies, no bad guys either, although John knows that's bound to change.

He thinks he hears some hurried footsteps, is certain that last sound is a door creaking, so he holds out a hand to keep Rodney in place, adding a quiet "Shh" for good measure.

"Fine, I'm going to stop here." Rodney whispers in return as John starts up the bottom of their third set of stairs.

"Just stay behind me and keep up," John orders on a ghost of a breath before charging up. He should be taking them two at a time if there really is someone above them, he knows that speed will be his best asset right now, along with the surprise that he hopes they have still maintained but is not counting on. But he is working through hour thirty-six right now without sleep and only scant food, and his body is definitely feeling the bruises and strain from all he's recently put it through.

"I _am_ keeping up," Rodney whispers quite harshly this time. "I just want to stop for two seconds to catch my breath--"

"That's why they have these things called gymnasiums," John can't help but dig back, even as he feels for Rodney, knowing the man is probably working on about as little sleep as John has had.

"Well, yeah, it's not like they're --"

John's not sure which of them is more surprised, he himself, or the terrorist. Fortunately Rodney is still several steps below the landing and opened door that John has just reached. Their guns fire simultaneously, both almost laughably missing their targets as John and the Tango are already under each other's guard, too close to one another to be even within point blank range. The ricochet of their shots pinging off of a wall and a railing respectively shouldn't end up anywhere near John's genius hacker geek, though. Managing to then get the first punch in, John's opponent is taller, bigger, younger and, most likely a lot more rested, so his return jab has significantly more effect. Still, John can only be knocked back against the stairwell's wall and he keeps his feet, along the wherewithal to fire again, missing once more but the noise of his SIG P226 going off in the guy's ear disorients the Tango.

It turns into a slugfest after that, with both of them losing their guns in the next few seconds as they move to disarm before moving in for the harder kill. John has never been a fan of close-quarter combat or hand-to-hand; a former Air Force pilot, he'd initially only been required to learn and pass the minimums of such service training (there are valid reasons the other forces called Air Force personnel Zoomies, rock stars and worse). Moving into Special Ops, CSAR, as well as a modicum of personal pride -- and more recently, Teyla's own interest -- has led John to learn a lot more than what was and is required of him now as a cop, included all of the little tricks that someone who wants to stay alive learns instead of worrying about chivalry or the Marquis of Queensbury rules.

The thug knew a few dirty tricks of his own, but he is used to getting by on intimidation and guns, and after a couple of minutes of trading blows and looking for advantages, John gets in a hit -- lucky, he'll admit to himself - that sends the bad guy over the edge of the railing and bounces him into a couple of edges and stationary pipes that pretty much guaranteed he won't be getting back up, even if he hasn't also dropped twenty or thirty feet onto his shoulders.

"Well, that will leave a mark," Rodney squeaks out as he eventually joins John on the landing, lending John a hand to regain his feet and steady his balance.

Yeah, Rodney is going to end up being that kind of guy too.

~~~~~

"Intel is fairly certain the terrorists are mobile," Daniel meets up with Jack again, figuring at this point he might as well just set up in Jack's office given how much time he's spending here instead of in his own. "It's the only way to consistently avoid signal triangulation. And judging by the amount of hardware they're running, we're probably looking for a large vehicle. Most likely a semi-trailer rig."

Jack has a couch that is probably more comfortable than Daniel's home bed, and while Daniel doesn't figure he will be able to get more than a minute or two in catnaps at a time, it'd would be worth it to just fucking sit down for a few moments, and remember what it feels like to have a relaxed body instead of one that is running on coffee and stress.

Jack nods in agreement with Daniel's assessment about the terrorists, and then actually waves at the two tools who had at least been given chairs now that the team has been able to move back into the cyber center instead of being stuffed out in the trailers. They've been sitting on their hands, staring at anyone who walks into or out of Jack's office after having been slapped down for staring over Sam's shoulder, so the woman quickly rises and gestures to her partner. Who scowls, but then grudgingly gets to his own feet and lumbers after her at Jack's beckoning.

"All right, lady, you said you are here to help," Jack greets her without any humor or tolerance in his tone or expression. "I need access to every agent, satellite and functioning network you've got. Now!"

~~~~~

Andee feels the skin on the back of her neck began to stand, but even she is unprepared for the voice being so close without her reacting earlier. And unprepared for the feel of a gun barrel against the back of her head. Sloppy. Messy.

"Playtime's over, sweetheart. Don't," he then warns as she reflexively moves her hand to her gun anyway.

"Hands up. _Stand_ up."

She does as he orders, and endures his hand as he pats her down. She'd taken off her tac vest as too cumbersome while she worked, has set the gun on the desk along with her equipment, because even though her breasts aren't all that big, no holster sits well on her body to enable a quick draw. There is also the fact that she is quite lethal without any weapon other than her body.

"Go on," the cop -- Sheppard -- is continuing, although now he is no longer talking to her, she surmises. "Now, Rodney! Let's go. You're up!"

Bonded enough to be on a first name basis; something she could work with, she suspects even as she is a little surprised. Few cops in her experience, even detectives, lose that much of their objectivity in less than twenty-four hours. Sure, McKay is obviously cooperating, but he still has to be a primary suspect for being willfully involved in all of this, especially given his current reluctance to do what he is being ordered.

"Yeah, okay."

McKay sounds sullen and exhausted, beaten down even. Maybe it isn't so much a loss of objectivity on the detective's part, but he's using McKay's first name as an insult, that he's decided McKay is weak and vulnerable, like a woman, instead of one of the guys -- one who deserves his last name grunted out as a measure of respect.

Fine, she'd show this Sheppard _weak and vulnerable. _

"As fast as you can -- hey!"

Although she needs to spin first, Andee goes for the same snap kick that had taken out the front guard, the extra movement slowing her down but also allowing her to increase the strength behind it. Unfortunately, she misses his throat, as he reacts quicker than expected. Instinct, however, does have him use his already extended gun hand to block the kick; under the force from her foot the gun falls from, no doubt, numbed if not broken fingers.

Andee's gun is much closer. She dives for it, catching hold and firing even as she lets her body fall away from Sheppard's reach. She knows she's caught the detective by surprise in aiming for McKay -- surprised McKay too by his panicked yelp -- but unfortunately she misses. And now Sheppard is wrestling with her for the gun, able to throw off two more shots she aims at McKay. Andee is able to slip out of Sheppard's grasp, losing the gun in the process, but she has full confidence in her fighting skills and soon has the pitiful man reeling.

Only, his fall is a feint for access to the nearest gun. Andee kicks it further away, moving next to stomp on his hand but he gets a hold of her ankle and pulls while her balance is resting all on one foot. The fall takes away her breath but she gets in a mule kick that catches the cop in his chest. She then twists so she's on her back and able to kick again with the full of her weight behind it, sending Sheppard crashing through one of the glass panels that sectioned the room, the glass shattering and giving way under him.

McKay is yelling in total panic, doing nothing but hovering, not quite in the way and not quite close enough to be a target. Sheppard is slow to get to his feet, but Andee recognizes the expression of a man that's had enough and she supposes that his subconscious pulling of his shots because she is a woman is about to be overridden.

"That's enough of this kung fu shit," he's bitching. "I've known a few bitches in my day, but you are the biggest --"

Andee meets him head on, still primarily using her feet for the greater distance and strength they provide. She's a little surprised that he's able to shift away, that he's still standing and managing to block her hand strike every time they close, to get in a few jabs and punches of his own that has her gritting her teeth.

She's still confident that she'll win, until she sees that McKay is edging toward one of the guns. That splits her focus, just enough, and the punch that lays into her jaw floors her, stunned. She stays down and unmoving, willing that Sheppard's too convinced of his superior strength, that she's unconscious. She also needs the minutes to catch her breath and subdue the rattling in her brain; fortunately, once again Sheppard's background and upbringing betrays him as he doesn't verify the little woman is out.

"Just keep doing what you were doing," she hears him order, no doubt to McKay.

"Yeah, okay," McKay responds shakily.

"How much time to you need?"

Just another minute, Andee thinks.

"Ah, not much."

"McKay!"

"What? I'm not exactly checking my email here, you known," McKay is whining. "I'm … they ran this hack in VMO which means I need to isolate the … I'm just booting the host…"

For a moment Andee worries that she got hit harder than she thought and she's not fully tracking, before deciding that McKay's mouth flitting from subject to subject is, no doubt, his natural state of mind.

"What?"

"It means about thirty seconds, John. This isn't the easiest thing to do when --"

Sheppard is completely distracted by McKay, only just starting to turn toward her as Andee plows her shoulder into his waist. Although it wasn't her intention, she's pushed them both to the catwalk and railing that overlooks some of the hardware installation a couple of stories below them. With that in mind she takes another hit that nearly lays her out, but also sets her up for another kick. Once more she misses his throat, but the impact against his shoulder pushes him backward against the railing and a reverse kick into his chest sends him over with a surprised yell that breaks off rather quickly. If there is any groaning or crying, she can't hear it over the sounds of her own gulping breaths, though she's not worried. That part of the facility is in Payne's jurisdiction, so even if she -- or the fall -- didn't kill the fucker, Payne will.

Her breathing still isn't as loud as McKay's as he comes rushing toward her. She pivots and grabs at his wrist like she's catching a fly, stopping him cold and then doubling him up as she twists and pushes back on his wrist.

"Undo everything you just did," she snarls at him, using her leverage on his bent wrist to force him back over to the computer systems. "Now!" as she pushes back against his wrist a little harder, not quite breaking it but all it will take is another modicum of pressure.

"Okay, okay, I'm a righty," he's nearly crying, definitely begging. "I'm a righty. I need my other hand. I really do."

Andee releases him only after forcing him to kneel down with her as she picks up the nearest gun.

"One last door to open," she breathes, considering if she should reach for her phone and update Michael, or simply wait until after she kills McKay.

"Do you know what you're doing?" McKay starts whining. "I mean, do you realize what this will do to the country?"

"Yes, I do," she says coldly. "Now open the door."

"Good. Glad we're on the same page," he starts muttering, but with a wary eye her direction, he also starts getting to work. "I'm glad you know."

Andee lets him work in silence, relying on her presence and her gun to keep him scared and productive. She can tell that he's finished, gotten them back on track even though he's trying to stall and fool her. Let him, she thinks, his petty attempt at deception will keep him busy as she comes up until her gun is just inches from the back of her head like Sheppard's had been to her own, liking the symmetry and knowing he doesn't have the skill or experience to sense that his death is upon him --

Sheppard has gotten the drop on her again, sweeping against her waist as she had him, but using his arm instead of his shoulder -- and his greater strength to lift her completely off her feet and carry them again away from a gaping McKay. Sheppard's momentum actually takes them out of the room this time, into the greater series of catwalks that overlook so much of the facility. Andee sees that he's found a piece of pipe from somewhere, properly fearing her close-combat skills and thinking that its addition to his reach will give him the advantage.

She's faster though, smaller, though not by much in height, certainly more flexible and obviously more used to this kind of engagement. As well as being much more practiced in keeping her footing in different types of environments she discovers in just the first moments of this encounter. She needs only play the waiting game, dodging instead of closing, letting his 'greater' strength be used to its disadvantage by using up his lesser stamina.

He's truly angry this time, losing his head and taking reckless actions, leaving himself open even though she knows that all he has to do is connect once, as the drop below them is much farther than the distance he's already fallen. The sudden appearance of Pranos behind Sheppard startles them both, and he takes a shot but misses, then stands in indecision once he's taken in how close he came to hitting Andee.

She curses his lack of balls, more than willing to take a bullet if it eliminates the thorns in Michaels' side even if it kills her also. She doesn't order Pranos to shoot, however, knowing he will most likely disregard it and not really having the time or the breath to waste. Her perseverance pays off in the next moment anyway, as she takes a chance and gets in a heel strike that forces the pipe from Sheppard's hand. Now back to simply the skills of their bodies, Andee moves in with a flurry of punches and strikes that even a twenty-five year old Chuck Norris or Bruce Lee would find hard pressed to block, and in another few seconds she has Sheppard on his knees, readying another heel strike as she decides to splinter his nose and send the chards into his brain, or to simply crush his throat so that he dies drowning in his own curses, blood and spit.

When the final moment comes, she doesn't recognize what has happened -- doesn't yet feel the pain -- although her body instantly doubles in weight and she can feel the foreign object that has rearranged her intestines. She shoots Sheppard a look of amazement, of respect and regret although his own expression shows no reciprocation for the gloriousness of the battle or her own skill. The last thing she imagines she'll hear is the barking of Pranos' gun firing at last, and she manages a smile at the thought that at least Sheppard will fall with her.

And then a quiet, "That has to kill you --" as she collapses and stumbles from the catwalk, a yelp and a startled yell, that her disengaging brain still somehow connects with Pranos and McKay and it is regret and despair that is bubbling from her mouth, along with her last breath and her life's blood.

~~~~~

"Sheppard! Sheppard? Oh, shit." Rodney sees John collapse to the floor of the catwalk. He's scared, not sure if John was shot before he'd pushed the bad guy over the edge, or if that bitch had finally taken John down even as he'd skewered her -- well, Rodney was pretty sure she'd more skewered herself as John hadn't even needed to thrust with his makeshift spear.

"Sheppard? John?" Rodney begins to slide forward with a death grip on the closest railing, keeping his eyes focused on John and not over the edge or even down at his feet as he can still see just how far the drop is below them through the diamonds of sheet metal. For a moment he falters and considers stopping, retreating back to the room and the relative safety and the ignorance of not knowing where John is still alive or not. If he gets there and John is dead, there will be no turning away from the knowledge, but if he leaves before he confirms anything, he can still hope -- and maybe someone else will have come by then to take over, to take the initiative and to deal with the bodies, all the bodies --

"Jesus fuck!" he screeches when John moves, hauling himself up by the railing and then swaying without even holding on. Rodney hurries forward before John falls again and finishes what that bitch had started.

"The shooter?" is the first thing out of John's mouth though, not thanks, yet Rodney maybe understands.

"I took him out," Rodney says with pride. "Did you see?" he begins to beg for validation and praise until he realizes that he didn't 'take someone out'… he fucking _killed _someone. With his own hands. With a quick push and nary a thought of anything other than getting rid of the threat, although in his imagination he could now see the splat as the guy's head became the watermelon under the mallet, somehow knowing that the sound of that would be almost accurate and that his brain would spend days (weeks) tweaking the sound until it was perfect even when he didn't know, didn't _want_ to know what a staved in head sounded li --

"S-So you stopped it, right?"

"I…I--"

"The shut down, Rodney. You stopped it?"

"Oh, uh, yeah, well … You know actually, having a gun to your head makes it harder to do this kind of work --"

"What?" John looks surprisingly bewildered and more than a little lost (vulnerable), which helps Rodney to focus.

"I know that comes as a surprise to someone like you, but I don't work very well under pressure and --"

"You're doing fine under pressure Rodney." John gives him a ghost of a smile and Rodney can actually see him pull himself together, taking back the lead, the initiative as if it had been Rodney who'd just gotten the shit beaten out of him instead of the other way around.

"Yeah, well, what about you? Anything broken this time?" Rodney can't imagine that nothing isn't this time, but actually believes John when he offers a tired (incredulous) smile and says:

"Nah, I'm good."

Rodney just shakes his head and begins helping get them back into the control room.

"So what's the problem?" John asks. "Can't you just turn it off?"

Rodney had already tried to just pull the plug as it were, but the bitch's system wasn't the only one integrated in now, and anything he did here might not matter a whit if the control had already been transferred to the other end.

"Lock them out somehow?

"Well, no, but … but I just might be able to slow them down until someone else can." The connection is already there, the only way she's been able to tie the three systems together -- to keep the three systems interfacing -- is through the web. With all of those millions and billions of stupid, worthless websites and exploitable vulnerabilities. Spyware, malware, adbot, trollbots …

"It's called an eBomb," he explains as he links in as many pop ups and exploding sites he can remember. In just a couple of minutes he can reconstruct the trail back to a portion of his anti-virus software, give it a couple of tweaks and turn it into an aggressive worm instead of a defensive one --

The bitch's cell phone starts ringing.

Rodney can't find the surprise in him when John answers, but he does appreciate (he thinks) when John puts this one on speaker phone too so he can listen in.

_ANDEE, TALK TO ME, _ they hear that same, eerily calm, male voice when John had confronted their DC Metro override. _WHAT'S GOING ON? _ It wasn't quite as calm as it had been then.

"Andee? Oh, yeah, that little red-headed chick that likes to kick people?" John snarls. "Does that make you Charlie Brown? Well, sorry, Charlie, but I don't think she's going to be talking to anybody for a really long time. Last time I saw her, she was trying to fly without a parachute. She did have a metal pole, though, but was unable to do the Flying Wallenda bit, since the pole was shoved through her stomach."

_MOTHERFUCKER, YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHO I AM OR WHAT I'M CAPABLE OF --_"

"Yeah, boo hoo, Chuck. Your fire sale is over. So pack up your kite and football and go back home. Or I'm gonna come and kick your fucking ass."

_\--WHEN I'M FINISHED HERE -- AND I PROMISE IT WILL BE SOON, _ 'Chuck' was continuing over John's own threat, no longer calm at all, _I WILL FOCUS_ ALL _OF MY ATTENION ON YOU. YOU WANT TO MAKE THINGS PERSONAL, JOHN? FINE. _

When the phone then goes dead, Rodney supposes that means the other guy blinked first. "You are certifiable --"

"Can you get O'Neil on this thing?" John interrupts, handing the phone back to Rodney and now sounding as weary as just moments before he'd sounded practically jaunty.

"Well, sure. I can get anyone."

"Do it."

It took them even less time to get O'Neil to the phone than the last time they'd reached him. Guess that meant that he -- or maybe John -- was like number one son now.

_Where in the hell are you two --_," O'Neil begins and then, _Oh, fuck. It's Michael Kenmore. _

Well, finally, the Feds have managed to put together who is behind all of this. Rodney knows the name, knows he should probably be very nervous in hearing it, but at the moment he can't put together why. Whether he doesn't really know much more than the guy's name or whether he just isn't remembering what he should know.

"You know this guy?" John scowls and growls into the phone

_I_ worked _with him_, comes Jack's answer. _He was DODs' chief programmer for infrastructure security. After 9/11, he was the guy that told the Joint Chiefs that the system was vulnerable. He was pushing for total overhaul, but they wouldn't listen. He's not exactly people friendly. _

"Ya think?"

John's sarcasm sounds almost as pithy as Rodney's own, but Rodney is now only half paying attention, as the system in front of him is changing despite all the porn ads still exploding into additional windows.

_When he tried to go public, they crucified him. Destroyed his reputation. Froze assets and after that, he disappeared. _

"Shit, John, we've got a serious problem," Rodney tugs John's arm to get his attention.

"Hold on a minute, O'Neil. What?" John then asks Rodney

"I think we need to get out of here right now."

"Why?"

"They're sending the gas lines here," Rodney points to one of the grid screens.

"Gas lines? What gas lines?"

"Oh …all of them. See that? Those flashing arrows, that is so not good."

"All that's coming here?"

"Yeah," Rodney finishes pushing some keys and then begins unsnapping the external pieces of the system and stuffs any of the useful bits into his backpack. "I really think we've got to go. Now."

"O'Neil, we're bugging out," John finally gets with the program and stops asking questions. Rodney's urgency is catching, enough that John is now actually moving faster than Rodney despite the beating he'd taken.

_Sheppard? McKay? _

"No, not the elevator," John stops Rodney just as he's pushed the down button.

Rodney nods; right, elevators always stop working when the power goes out -- or when there is fire detected. And fuck, is fire starting to be detected.

Because it is coming in multiple pipe lines, not everything explodes at once. The first explosions occur in the outer sections, bleeding off some of the build-up and the danger, but Rodney knows it won't be enough. That they're not going to be able to get far enough away before what happened in his apartment will look like lighting a match and a firecracker in comparison. He'd tried to get something going in those last seconds upstairs, knowing he couldn't necessarily stop or reroute things but having to try. His real hope at this point had been to accelerate what the bitch had begun, here in this facility only, instead of throughout the system. Surely if a sudden power loss hits the hub, there is some sort of failsafe that will kick in with regard to the gas distribution -- with stopping the gas distribution. He has no idea if he's right -- or if what he tried will help (do anything) -- but he supposes he can at least die knowing that he tried to do something instead of being paralyzed once more by panic.

John has taken Rodney's backpack, and is still pushing Rodney to go faster. They're both sliding down stairwell railings like kids, and Rodney is pushed over the final turn to jump to the bottom landing, with John at his back. He lands for shit, but John's there to pull him up and tug him forward again, which is good, because Rodney has no fucking idea where they've ended up.

The sounds of explosions is nearly constant now, the night sky lit by flames, although there's smoke too, doing it's damnedest to obscure their progress and steal their breath. Rodney's surprised that it's all still isolated, however, instead of the final big boom and conflagration to engulf the entirety of the power station. There is enough rumbling and shaking to roll the floor under their feet and keep their balance sketchy, but somehow they've made it into a parking garage and there, standing before them is a government hazmat vehicle, with doors still open and inviting.

Rodney doesn't need John's prompting to head toward it, although he's confused as hell when John directs them to the side entrance instead of the front seat. Rodney has little choice, however, as he's being shoved through and the door is being slammed shut as John joins him. Even when the van is moving, sliding sideways before actually lifting from the ground (taking Rodney's stomach with it) and then tilting over before slamming into something else that stops their momentum cold, Rodney can't wrap his brain around what had happened.

The fact that he's trying to cough pieces of his brain (and lungs) out of his throat probably has something to do with it. Before he is completely overcome with smoke, the back doors have been kicked open by John and at least Rodney's body knows what to do, even if his brain is still lagging a little behind.

John is lagging too, and that more than anything else kick-starts Rodney's brain again.

"You okay?" he asks between more coughing and trying to man-handle one sorry-ass looking stripper cop.

John is nodding and, although he can't quite catch his breath to talk yet, the gestures he makes is obvious, and Rodney suspects he's not looking much better himself. He looks around, marveling as he waits for John to get himself under control. In the last twenty-four hours, he's been involved in a shoot-out (more than one), a kidnapping (sorta, but his relocations had mostly been against his will), a high speed car chase (from a helicopter), and now an explosion of epic proportions (relegating the one in his loft to the status of negligible, although the threat of burning to death or dying from smoke inhalation had certainly been real enough). And he survived them all, which was the most amazing part of all --

"When you said … fire sale, I … didn't think fire was supposed … t-to be a real part of it," John groused.

Right. Fuck. Even though this had been a fucking big climax, this wasn't over.

"Let's go, Rodney. There's no telling if that … was the last of it. We've got to get out … of here."

Rodney can't help but turn on John. He knows that he's supposed to just look past the blood, bruises and smudges, because that's what John's doing, but he can't. "What's the point?" he asks in despair. "What is the fucking point?"

"Hey, knock that shit … off," John looks surprised. And then a bit pissed. "Come on, Rodney. This all has something to do with that code you wrote. Now think. Come on. Help us win."

Win? That stops Rodney in his tracks. "Win? When the fuck did we start winning? Huh? Take a look around," he gestures wildly, to the pillars of fire and smoke still rising but, thankfully, there seems to be no more explosions. Somewhere out there one of the pipes is simply venting all the gas into the air, the world's biggest Bic lighter.

"Are you out of your mind, John? Does it look like we're even close to winning? We just got the shit kicked out of us! What?" Rodney asks when John is still looking at him like _Rodney's_ the crazy one. "You think I'm holding out on you? That there is something I'm just not telling you that will end all of this? Jesus, if I knew what they wanted I would tell you, I would so fucking happily tell you --"

"Jesus."

John's exclamation is quiet and all the more powerful (terrifying) because of it. Rodney twists to see what had pulled John's attention from his ranting and can't help mouthing the same. The eastern hub was on the outskirts of its neighboring suburb, up into the hills a little ways although stretched across something of a valley. Even so, they were still higher than most of their surroundings, and before, where the horizon was awash with pinprick lights and an ambient glow that made backyard astronomy almost impossible, it was now totally black save for a few brave (foolhardy) souls who'd ignored the emergency broadcasts and were still out driving, their tiny headlights the only flicker of life in the smothering shadows.

"Shit, the Warlock," Rodney suddenly remembers and pulls his backpack from John's hands. He finds the cell phone, but then stops. "Oh right! No more cell phone."

"They knock the satellites out of the skies, now?" John asks as if he halfway believes it.

"No, the battery ran out."

John just gives him a little nod, as if that's the way he expects his luck to run.

"Listen, we should still go see him," Rodney prompts.

"Who?" John's back to sounding a little out of it.

"The _Warlock_." Rodney knows his own tone sounds exasperated, but he's tired, shaky -- _hungry_ \-- and still trying to bleed of anger, terror and despair. "We should drive to his house. It's not that far away. He's in Baltimore."

"We are not going to the Warlock's house," John protests and pulls his arm away from where Rodney had slug it over his shoulder. John sways a little bit, but still takes a couple of drudging steps forward, no doubt expecting Rodney to just follow along like a good little boy again.

Rodney doesn't move. "Hey, hey," he calls out. "Hey! You want me to help you? This is me helping you. You've got to trust me. We need to go see the Warlock. He's our only hope."

John's looking at something other than Rodney, but Rodney can still hear the smile in Johns voice when he responds with: "Well, you did say he was a Czech Jedi."

Then, "How do you feel about flying?"

"A-about what?" Rodney stutters. "You mean like with a pilot?" But, of course, John isn't looking at a car that will take them to an airport, or out where BWI would be. He's looking straight at the FBI helicopter that's backlit like a black diamond glittering amidst black velvet from the flames.

"Come on, Rodney."

~~~~~

John practically glides to the helicopter, his weariness and pain fading under a rush of excitement. Rodney follows, as John knew he would and climbs, albeit reluctantly, into the co-pilot's seat.

"Just stick it in the round thing," John tells him after he's run through the start-up procedures and sees that Rodney is just sitting there with the loose seat harness in his hands.

"What round thing?"

"Here, put these on," he hands over a set of headphones so he'll be better heard above the sound of the powering rotors. John puts his own headphones on and feels a hell of a lot of stress and aching just melt away.

"Just stick it in there, yeah, that's."

Rodney nods, with a little moan.

"Hey, are you okay?" John glances over to see a very pale looking geek. It could just be the adrenalin crash, since Rodney had done an amazing job of keeping it together when everything was going down. But it also might be his hyperglycemia acting up again; even John's stomach is rumbling a bit although that could just be the muscles trying to resettle after getting kicked so fucking many times.

"Yeah, ah, I'm just kind of afraid of flying," Rodney stammered out.

"Yeah? I used to be terrified myself." Not of flying, of course, but John had truly been scared to death of losing the sky after he'd left the Air Force. The little Piper Cub that had been his first acquisition when he'd returned to the States helped, but his first love had always been rotors instead of fixed-wings, and it wasn't like he got much time off to take her up anyway.

"Really?" Rodney asks, as if he still doesn't believe John can get scared.

"Yeah, I took some lessons; you know face your fear, that kind of thing?" It isn't that he's trying to string Rodney along, so much as trying to get him past the fear and the whole misery loves company thing was all he could think of to offer.

"Did it help?"

But getting a rise out of Rodney has worked to focus him too. "Nah, not really."

Sure enough, Rodney starts to sputter.

John ignores him for a few moments, powering up the rest of the systems and checking pertinent things, like the fuel gage.

"Is it … is it supposed to make that sound?" Rodney asks as something squeals when John starts to lift them.

He hadn't walked around the bird like he should have before take-off to check for collateral damage from the explosions, but she isn't handling like she's got or piece missing or even been holed, and John's a little more concerned about just getting them away. This little beauty doesn't have to get them all the way to DC. Or fucking Baltimore.

"Yeah, she's --"

"Maybe we should just drive," Rodney interrupts, his voice picking up speed and timbre as he feels them go airborne. "It'd be fun, it'll be like a road trip --"

"Just take it easy, Rodney. Taking off is the hardest part."

"Really? I heard -- You have your license right?" Rodney interrupts himself when the bird slews a little bit down and to the right as John avoids the mess of power lines coming out from the burning hub.

"I mean you can fly one of these things, right?"

"Relax, Rodney. I flew something a lot like this for my fifteen in the Air Force," John puts him out of his misery.

"You were in the Air Force?"

"Well, I wasn't born a New York City detective."

"Oh, yeah, okay. Ha ha, laugh at the expense of the computer --"  
"Rodney, just shut up for a minute, okay. I need you to find the flight charts and get me a heading," John instructs, taking his hand off the collective for a moment and flipping open a panel that indeed held a small penlight flashlight. "With the power out, we've lost all of the typical landmarks and while flying instruments is just fine," he adds quickly as he can hear Rodney start to hyperventilate, "I still need a direction to go."

Not to mention that he is going to have to split his field of vision between those instruments and outside the cockpit for what will be seen through the floodlights. The topo charts will be providing only ground elevations and not a hint of the heights of buildings, power lines and cell towers to name the most common obstacles he is going to have to go above or around.

Hopefully, by keeping Rodney busy in calling out constant readings, it will keep him from putting together all of the reasons why John needs them.

"Where?"

"There's a case between our seats." It doesn't matter that this isn't a real FBI helicopter -- although John would have loved to have the instant radio access -- even a terrorist isn't going to fly without charts and maps, and John had already seen the ubiquitous flight bag.

While Rodney pulls the case up into his lap and begins to identify all the pieces, John flips on the radio he does have, makes note of the stenciled flight number and puts in a call to the FAA. He'd overhead from O'Neil's people say that the FAA had grounded everything, which means anything up in the air at this point will be military or terrorist, and he needs to make sure they don't get painted as Tangos.

~~~~~

"The power outage keeps spreading," Daniel looks up when he feels Jack's presence behind him. "About half of the east coast has already gone down and projections have it hitting us in the next ten minutes."

"All right," Jack nods to him. "Put everything on emergency generators now." Emergency generators will cripple their capacity, but be a damn sight better than nothing, of course. "The other hubs?"

"We've got strike teams going out to all of them. If Kenmore's ambitions stretch beyond the East Coast --"

"It's not like he hasn't already fucked us, Daniel. Have you figured out how he's still getting past us?"

Daniel lets his head drop for a second, unable to answer because, Jack knows, there isn't an answer. Not yet. Kenmore is leading them by the nose, always two -- four -- steps ahead of them and it doesn't matter that they have a fucking blueprint and timeline of his actions. The vulnerabilities in the system are fatal and all Daniel can do right now is triage. The only way to stop Kenmore is to stop Kenmore. And, so far, they have no --

"Sir, we've got another bead on Sheppard," Siler is calling out from Walter's station.

Jack had finally sent the first team to bed a couple of hours ago, once they'd passed the thirty hour mark. He's about to force Daniel away, not willing take even a catnap himself unless Daniel has gotten enough downtime first to take his place.

It isn't that Jack doesn't trust his normal night shift counterpart, but Cam Mitchell is still new to the FBI and to the job, and against Kenmore, the junior varsity just isn't going to cut it. Currently Mitchell has been spending most of his time chatting up the DHS hottie; useful in that he is also playing stalking horse for the pompous Woolsey, which is the main reason Jack hasn't called him on it.

"Can you patch me through?"

"I'm working on it, sir, he's apparently up in a helicopter and the communication was with the FAA. Things are a little -- Fuck!"

Whatever configuration Walter had been running, it is apparently not compatible with running under generator power. The smell of burnt electronics -- and burnt flesh -- is enough to make Jack's nose twitch, but it isn't setting off any of the fire suppression system, so they can thank the powers that be for that small favor.

"Cam, get Siler down to Doc Frasier," Jack orders with barely a twitch. Of course one of his men is going to get hurt during all of this; everything else has already been thrown at them.

Little Miss DHS is taking the fire extinguisher from Siler's obviously reddened hands, and Mitchell is steering Siler away almost before Jack's words had finished. One of the night crew, Vala, if Jack is remembering correctly (the name only -- her pigtails are very distinctive) has already transferred whatever Siler had opened into new windows on her system, but she is shaking her head as Jack walks up to her.

"I've lost the FAA connection. I think it might be from their end."

Ah, the outage -- and shit -- just keeps spreading.

~~~~~

Rodney still feels like shit, despite the five hours of sleep John had insisted they get, and their 'meal' of abandoned grocery take-out. Someone else had already broken the glass and began the looting, but another judicious flash of John's badge had the local cops letting them in, once the nature of Rodney's emergency had been explained. It wasn't as if any of the stores, restaurant or fast food joints were staying open any longer, not with the black-out in addition to everything else that had been happening. As far as most folks knew, this was the End Of The World, so they wanted to meet it hiding under their own covers.

A great idea, a _fantastic _idea, but obviously just one more that Rodney is destined to have to ignore.

"Don't tell me, that's your Warlock's house," John sneered as Rodney turns them around the next corner.

He'd been surly ever since Rodney had suggested they not take the helicopter and try to land in a suburban neighborhood, although he had relinquished the keys to the squad car they'd been loaned with a hell of a lot less whining than Rodney had expected. Obviously the few hours of sleep and first real food in way too long hadn't been enough to help John feel fully human either, but at least he was looking better after submitting to the ministrations of one of the paramedics.

Given other circumstances, Rodney might have tried for the guy's phone number, as Scottish (any) accents had always been one of his turn ons.

Yeah, Radek's house is pretty damn obvious, being the only one with power in likely a ten mile radius. Rodney stops the car several houses away, turns off the engine and starts to get out. "Ah, there is something you need to know about the Warlock," he starts in as he opens his door. "He… he hates cops. I mean he hates them, okay? So let me do all the talking."

John isn't exactly agreeing, isn't saying anything to that, actually, but he does get out of the car and starts to follow Rodney with only a sigh instead of a protest.

He also knocks on the door, three loud, rhythmic thumps, when Rodney starts to push the door bell. Then three more. It must be something they're taught.

"Shit." Rodney did not know that Radek is still seeing Kate -- that Kate is fucking living with him. But that silhouette is unmistakable as she comes to the door.

"Uh, hey, Kate …. Doctor Heightmeyer," Rodney quickly corrects when she looks down her nose at him like he's the scum beneath her feet she's always thought him to be. The 'doctor' sticks in his dry throat, as she's a product of the worst of the voodoo disciplines, psychology. He cannot fathom what Radek sees in her (besides the obvious). Surely the pressure of your _every_ action being psycho-analyzed would engender all manner of anxieties.

"Look, is Radek home? It's important. End of the -- this is John," he interrupts himself when she glances to his companion. "He's … uh, he's one of Radek's students and --."

"Radek!" she shouts toward the back of the house and simply turns away, clutching her robe closer around her admittedly knock-out set of knockers.

"Radek?" John whispers.

"Uh, yeah, Radek Zelenka," Rodney whispers back. Czechoslovakian, I said that, right? Police to him mean the State Police, the Secret Po --"

"Yeah, I get it, Rodney.

"He's not going to come up to you," Kate turns her head to scowl at the two of them still standing in the door. She gestures to another door off the kitchen, one that obviously leads down stairs to a basement.

"Radek, you've got company," she yells some more as she leads them down the stairs. "Didn't you hear me?"

"All Baltimore heard you, Katarina."

"One of your students is here," she says more softly, her face turning an attractive shade of pink amidst the wild reddish mane of hair. Rodney is pretty sure she'd been a blonde the last time he'd met her, and is even more sure that their arrival woke her up. Not Radek, though.

"Student? What?"

"He's come with McKay."

Radek has jumped up from the Lazy-Boy he uses in front of a system of computers and monitors that makes the typical NASA or JPL set up look small. Normally there are satellite feeds from all over the world, twenty or stations, streaming across them, and all but two are broadcasting. Rodney is pretty sure all of them are foreign feeds, and that just makes the screw in his stomach tighten yet another notch.

"Rodney."

Radek sounds pissed, the more so when he sees John standing behind Rodney. Kate, no doubt an A student in body language, heads back up the steps to leave them to Radek's mercies. Even when he and Radek worked together, more often than not they would end up in screaming matches, the two of them too competitive -- and too much alike -- for their own good.

"Who is that? Who have you brought here and why?"

"Oh that's --"

"No. Doesn't matter. What are you doing here?" Radek scowls and then shoves his glasses back up his nose from nearly losing them in his shaking fury. "Because of you I am on to fifth generator just to stay on line. And since you're being hunted by assassins, your arrival doesn't make me think visit will be productive or healthy. You are not bringing this down on my head -- Hey, hey, don't touch that, _Ty debile zasranej! _"

Rodney spins around to see John standing in front of yet more equipment, some sort of radio set up, however, not computer tech.

"CB radio?" John just raises his brow in amusement. Like maybe he knew that Radek had just called him a shitty idiot.

"Little low tech for you guys, isn't it?"

"Low-tech? That is Armageddon insurance. So when last microchip goes down, I will be able to track and stay in touch with whoever's left out there, be they zombies, _pitomecs_ or what. I -- Rodney, why did you bring this _vůl_ here?"

"Hey, he's cool. He's --"

"Nice poster."

Rodney's head is moving back and forth between Radek and John, not sure who he should be keeping his eye on. Radek doesn't normally resort to physical violence, but he has been known to slap someone like a girl now and again, and Rodney is standing within range. John, conversely, has a gun -- and is moving around slowly, taking in the rest of Radek's lair, having stopped in front of the Boba Fett standee Radek stuck in front of his table of bits and pieces.

"You like Boba Fett?" Radek is surprised enough to ask.

"No. I was always more of a Han Solo guy. Or Obi-Wan -- when he was young and still with Qui-Gon."

"I suppose you like Jar-Jar Binks too?" Radek sputters.

To Radek, Rodney knows, the Star Wars legacy ended with the final scene of the Return of the Jedi, and everything that has followed -- books and movies -- are simply a product of the clone of George Lucas that Corporate American brought in.

"Well, he wasn't as bad as Anakin. Any Anakin --"

"He's kidding! Radek, he's --"

"_Ses posral v kine? Di do vole prdele vole debile vole! _"

"Hey, _Debil_, I'm a cop, not a jerk or a dickwad? _Neser_ me! "

"A cop! I… I -- _Jdi se vycpat_," Radek turns on Rodney, his eyes as wild as his hair. "_Tahni do prdele, ty kurvo zasrana_ \--"

"Just shut the fuck up," John's getting a little angry -- and also seems to get more than just the gist of what Radeks' saying.

Rodney only knows that he's being cussed out, maybe even cursed given the way Radek is also waving his arms.

"Don't help, John," Rodney tries to placate, but that is so not one of his skills. "I can explain --"

"Just tell us what you know about Michael Kenmore, all right?" John orders harshly, but at least isn't moving from where he's stopped across the room. "Tell us that and we'll get out of your hair"

"Michael Kenmore? _Neoxiduj tu_! I want you out of here right now!"

"Just calm down --"

"Calm down? _You_ calm down! Is my house and you trespass --!"

"And you're going to tell me what I need to know, or I'm going to beat you to death in your own house," John is now growling.

Rodney's pretty sure John doesn't mean it, that he won't actually hit (hurt) Radek, but it's turning into a long couple of days, with no end really in sight. Even he's a little pissed at Radek's attitude, since Radek was the one who'd gotten Rodney involved with this Kenmore in the first place.

"Radek, you know what's happening out there. A fire sale, as close to Armageddon or the end of the world as we're likely to get involved in and still have a chance to survive. But only if you help, okay? Kenmore's calling the shots, but he can't be smarter than either of us -- than the _both _of us."

A door shuts above them, leaving Rodney to wonder if Kate's called the cops. He doesn't imagine they're going to be quick in responding, in any case, and John's badge has gotten through everything of that nature so far.

"Radek…"

"Four years ago, DOD recruits Michael Kenmore to be cyber spook for them," Radek begins, as if he's lecturing his first year students, but if that's what he needs to get through this …

"First day on job, he goes to bosses and tells them nation's security infrastructure is wide open to compromise. And what did they say? We'll take under advisement. But Kenmore doesn't stop because he's committed, like you read about. So he breaks into meeting of Joint Chiefs of Staff and, using just laptop, hacks into NORAD and shuts down entire defense network.

There is a bit of Radek's expression that is part awe, part respect, but it soon twists when he continues.

"Until they put gun to man's head and forced him to stop hack. Michael Kenmore is guy who shut down _NORAD_ with a laptop, just to prove a point. You think you -- we -- can take him on?"

"Just tell us how to find the guy," John says a lot more calmly. "You don't have to do anything else."

"How do I know how to find guy? He's ghost. He's off grid completely."

"Shit, another dead end," John suddenly looks all kinds of weary again and ten years older. "Come on, Rodney."

"Hold on, wait," Rodney protests. "Listen, Radek, that program I wrote --"

"Mutating algorithmic security code? Is probably being using by Michael Kenmore right now."

"No, yes, we know that," Rodney scowls. "With all of your equipment here, can you tell us what he's using it for? Where he's using it?"

"I don't know. Give me minute."

Radek moves back to his reclining chair and sits down, grabbing up a standard keyboard and a couple of minis that are hooked into other peripherals. He pounds a few keys, typing faster than Rodney can read, the entire system moving with a speed Rodney's never seen before. But then, most of the East Coast users would be off line, completely off-line, including the big corporations and other system hogs.

"Look," he gestures to Rodney to come closer. "This is it, yes? Your new code? The only security system in country currently employing that particular template is Social Security Administration. But they don't even use in main facility. Look. They use in this building. Woodlawn."

"What the hell?" Rodney's eyes are drawn to the energy levels. Obviously Woodlawn has a bank of generators too, and they're using all of them.

"Yes, I know."

"Know what?" Sheppard asks as he comes over to stand behind Rodney. "What the hell are you guys talking about?"

"The power consumption is off the charts," Rodney points to the relevant screen.

"So?"

"So is hot but still working."

"Which means chilling towers. But what would they need chilling towers there?" Rodney ponders out loud.

"Yes, puzzling."

"Hello… What's a chilling tower?"

"See what I've been dealing with?" Rodney turns to Radek with a gesture to John. "The FBI people are worse, as they're supposed to know. But they've got Sam Carter working there."

"Ah, you are still bitter she broke your heart?"

"Hey!"

Rodney flushed and turned a contrite expression toward John. "Large server farms like we're seeing here, generate a lot of heat and need to be cooled. So they install cooling towers. But why there?"

"I do not know what is in building, but I assure you is not just social security numbers."

~~~~~

"I've got a red flag over here," Ladon calls out. "Someone is hacking into Woodlawn."

Michael gets up from his chair. They should be no more than a couple of hours away from completion and while he could pull the plug now, having sixty percent of the data, without getting it all, it might takes weeks to sort through and filter out the missing sectors. Weeks in which the government would have opportunity to put backups into place before Michael could wipe it all away. No, Tyrus would be fine at Woodlawn, especially with Kolya's team to back him up and take out any inopportune visitors.

"Homing in on the host server right now," Ladon's fingers continue to fly, barefly pausing when Michael grips his shoulder. "It's Radek Zelenka."

Ladon purposefully doesn't turn to look over his shoulder, but Michael can feel it trembling underneath his fingers, can feel the part of Ladon that wants to cry out as Michael's fingers tighten cruelly.

"He'll have a monitor cam," Michael growls with the effort of relaxing his grip and releasing the man underneath him. "Let's have a look.

Ladon's fingers aren't working quite as dexterously this time, but he manages to hijack the signal, his skill more due to Michael's own and the equipment Michael's gathered. In the list of the best, Ladon would be several slots below Zelenka, who was one or two slots below McKay.

"Fuck, Sheppard and McKay are with him," Michael growls again with a newly found deep and abiding hatred. "Have you fucking found his wife or daughter yet?"

"Wife's sequestered somewhere within Homeland Security," Sora squeaks from her seat next to Ladon. "We've been trying to trace a cell on the daughter… Teyla's not a common name, but we're not sure if she's going by Gennaro, Sheppard or Emmagan, which was her birth father's name and they are a lot of carriers. She'd been out on the West Coast before transferring to Rutgers, so she might have kept her old number--"

"Are you making excuses?"

"N-no, no, sir. I --"

"I've got her," Ladon taps his own screen. "Her phone's on despite the downed networks and has full GPS tracking. Cool, we've even got CCTV."

"All right, so let's get a better look at Miss … Emmagan." Ladon's screen reads. "Perfect." Michael takes a moment to again regret and seethe that Sheppard killed Andee, Ladon isn't anywhere near good enough to anticipate his orders, and Michael doesn't really like dealing with Kolya. But Kolya is exactly the man to deliver him Sheppard's daughter. Something Detective Sheppard really deserves to know.

He leans over Ladon to make the Skype connection to Zelenka.

"Radek."

The look of pure panic on the Czech bastard's face is almost comical.

_What? Who? _

"What the hell are you doing dicking around inside my network?" Michael can see when Radek figures out who's talking, sees that's Sheppard's figured it out too -- and that they're on camera.

"Sheppard? I thought I killed you already."

_Yeah, I get that sometimes_. Abruptly the camera is blocked by Sheppard's hand.

_You think you can, uh, find a track where he is?_

Two minutes, Zelenka answers.

Maybe, maybe not, but … "Detective, you _do_ know covering the camera with your hand does not turn off the microphone."

_Yeah, I know I'm not as smart as you guys at all of this computer shit_, Sheppard answers, still annoyingly covering the camera anyway. _But hey, I'm still alive ain't I? I mean, you've got to be running out of bad guys by now, right? Honestly, you can tell me_, Michael. _I mean, how does that work? You got some kind of service or something? Some kind of 800 number? I-800-HENCHMEN? Oh, you know what? I bet you're still on hold with 'Can I get another dead hooker bitch over here right away?' Huh? But seriously, all that kicking aside, that skinny little ninja chick, she_ was _smoking hot. A new one of those is gonna be real hard to come by, right? _

Michael absolutely refuses to look at the rest of the people around him, wants to _kill_ the rest of the people around him. For being here and hearing this, for looking fearful but also speculative. Because Michael cannot respond in the manner Sheppard deserves. Not yet, anyway.

"You're very impressed with yourself, aren't you, Detective?"

_I have my moments. _

"Yeah? Is this one of them?" Michael pushes Ladon from his chair and takes a seat. With a couple of keystrokes, he restores partial power to the elevator Teyla Emmagan Sheppard has been stuck in, no doubt for hours, then sends a copy of the streaming feed from the CCTV to Zelenka's system. He's given her lights, and turned on the emergency phone, but the elevator still won't be moving until he lets it go.

_Hello? _

"Yes, this is emergency services calling," Michael speaks calmly to young Miss Emmagan, the embers he's been stoking in his belly since Andee's death igniting as he hears Sheppard's gasp.

_Oh thank god._

Can she hear me?  
No, Sheppard, she can't. But I can, Michael smiled to himself.

_My name is Teyla Emmagan. I've been stuck in here for hours. I've been trying to call --_

Hey! can she hear this? Teyla, hang up that phone!

Not so fucking smug now.

"Yes. Calm down, miss. We know exactly where you are. Everything is going to be all right.

They all watch as the young woman sighs, her whole body relaxing as she slides back down to a sitting position on the floor, the emergency phone still in hand.

_Teyla, hang up the phone. _

Michael covers up the secondary mike he's using to talk to the woman. "Please, John, I'm trying to have a conversation." Then, speaking back into it again, "We're a bit overloaded today, as you may imagine, but I assure you, we're going to get you out of there, Miss Emmagan. Even if I have to _come down there and get you myself_."

_Thank you. _

"In the meantime, is there anyone you'd like us to contact for you?"

_Yeah, my dad. His name is John Sheppard. He's a New York City cop. _

"_I'll_ find him. Just hang in there, miss. We'll get to you… very soon.

_Thank you. _

"Wow. That's a great girl you've got there," Michael continues as he disconnects with the elevator system. "_Can't_ wait to meet her."

~~~~~

Rodney thought he was scared before, thought that he had reached the absolute zenith of terror he could feel even as each event had escalated in horror and in scope. But he'd been wrong, as the ultimate fear didn't come with gunshots or explosions. It was simply a certain dead (deadly) look in an eye and near silent steps as they ghosted up a wooden staircase.

His own sound like a herd of elephants in comparison, but at least this way John will know that Rodney's following and will surely wait --

"John, hey, hold up. Hold on. Where … What are you going to do?"

Rodney wasn't really sure John will stop, but he does. And turns around with that horribly lethal expression still covering his face.

"What do you think I'm going to do, Rodney? I'm going to go kill that guy and get my daughter."

"But she could be anywhere. Kenmore's heading toward Woodlawn now, but that doesn't mean --"

"Yeah, you're right," Rodney offers something that he supposes John thinks is a smile before John resumes his trek to the squad car.

"You should just stay here with your friend," is thrown back over John's shoulder.

"No, I-I'm the one with the key --"

"Hey, I'm doing you a favor, Rodney." John's stops at the driver's door, but of course Rodney had forgotten to lock it when they'd arrived.

"You're not that guy, right?" John throws back in his face, leaning on the door frame. "It's going to get messy. And I wouldn't be betting on me, all right? I'll take it from here. Thanks for your help and have a good life," is his parting shot as he gets in and slams the door.

Rodney races to the other side, knowing he's got the time for John to pull the underwires again to get in. He thinks John is surprised, but also maybe a little grateful -- or it could just be because Rodney's holding the keys out.

"I wouldn't bet on you either, so I figure I should lend a hand."

"Buckle up."

~~~~~

Being stuck in an elevator has given Teyla the opportunity to get past her anger with John, even if she's not quite ready to forgiver her mother. It's not like she has had much to do other than meditate anyway. And try not to think about how she has to pee. Yeah, she has the empty bottle from the water she always carries in her bag, but while she's flexible, she's not sure she's that flexible and, now that contact's been made, she's a little concerned about the camera that's over her head.

So she holds on, figuring/hoping that rescue really is imminent, and laughs at herself for how quickly she was willing to call John her dad. She can try and rationalize that it was just easier to have said that to the emergency personnel. Being honest, however, she knows it's really because she's nervous and feeling helpless, and John is the one who has always made her feel safe. Even when she knows she can take care of herself.

She's still really, really happy to hear the doors of the elevator being forced apart. And that outside help has come, because she's going to need help getting out -- the floor is nearly ten feet above her and she doesn't really have any hand or foot holds that she would trust to pull herself up.

"FBI ma'am. Jersey field office," a pocked-face man is crouched down in the couple of feet of clearance and holding down his hand toward her.

Teyla knows her immediate distrust is simply a product of bigotry, that because the man is ugly and has a severe expression, she is inclined to be wary. But she is also a child of all of her parents, and being cautious is not a fault.

"Mind if I see your ID?"

"Not at all," he says mildly, although the smile on his face still seems out of place.

Teyla gives him a wry laugh "Sorry, my dad is a cop. Force of habit."

"Your father sounds like a very smart man," the Federal agent again extends his hand and Teyla makes the leap.

~~~~~

 

"Can you get O'Neil?" John asks after he tosses the handset from the car's radio transceiver into the wheel well above Rodney's feet.

"Uh, yeah, I think so." Rodney plugs the bitch's phone into his universal adapter and then both into the car's cigarette lighter. And gets no more than John had through the RT.

"No, sorry, it's completely dead. The blackout must be pretty widespread, taking out even some of the emergency systems and the satellite links." Rodney doesn't like the expression of resignation on John's face now any more than the earlier one; this one scares him in a different manner.

"I'm sorry, too, about Teyla, John. About all of it. It's my fault the two of you got dragged into this."

"You've got nothing to be sorry about. Rodney. You're just as much the victim. Kenmore's the one who's going to be sorry."

~~~~~

"Let go of me, you bastard!"

"This bitch is a handful," Acastus admits as he brings in the girl from the elevator to the command center where Michael is checking over Tyrus' work. His scowl deepens when he sees Michael and Tyrus' amusement both, at her fighting him every step of the way. She's a tiny thing, maybe five four to his six three, but she's got sharp elbows and an even sharper tongue, plus the devil's own luck in the couple of shots she's gotten in against an … inconvenient portion of his anatomy.

In his embarrassment, Acastus gets sloppy, and the girl's current struggling gets her loose enough from his grip to plant a strong punch against his jaw and then pull her way free. But only until he gets a thick handful of her hair and reels her right back in against his chest. At least she's breathing harder than he is.

"Are you going to be all right?" Michael lets his sarcasm drip. "Hey…Behave… or I will hurt you," Michael then threatens the spitfire whom Acastus thrusts down into the nearest chair.

She's pushing up and onto her feet, but he slams her back down.

"Yeah? Let us step outside, just you and me, we will see you hurts who."

"You really are his daughter," Michael says with a measure of praise. "Tie her down," as Michael then tosses Acastus some extra long tie wraps

Acastus thinks he should find a gag, too, but Michael seems unconcerned.

"Send Ladon to me. And take care of the others.

Acastus nods and rises smoothly back to his feet, making sure he checks the level of his clip so that the girl can see his gun, and his skill in handling it.

The computer crew should still be in the trailer. Had he his own way, he'd be eliminating Radim too -- or instead of Sora -- but Michael still seems to have use for Ladon, and even Acastus knows enough about computers to know that Sora will never equal Radim's skills.

"Radim, Kenmore wants to see you," he commands the second he walks into the trailer. The other three operators don't show any evidence of knowing what's up, though Sora does look resentful that it's Radim being called for instead of her. Acastus had never been sure whether Sora had ambitions for Radim's position or for Andee's; he's not sure even Sora had that figured. Out.

"Is it that time already?" Radim looks up.

"Yes."

"Okay. I'll be back in a second," Radim needlessly offers to Sora and Torrell as he takes his laptop and leaves.

~~~~~

"Hey, John, do we have anything resembling a plan?"

John's not quite sure when Rodney's started calling him John. He's glad about it, but also knows that his mind is wandering, looking for something else -- anything else -- to think about other than what Michael might be doing to Teyla.

"Find Teyla, kill everybody else," he says harshly. Too bad if O'Neil wants any of them alive.

"I mean like a way to do that type of plan," Rodney groans as he follows John into the Woodlawn complex. The outer signage says National Data Administration, which doesn't give John any more clue as to what Kenmore's doing here than knowing it belongs to the Social Security Administration. They were still missing something in their understanding of Kenmore's plan.

"Well, first you can tell me where they are."

"Yeah, I'll just click my ruby heels and think about Kenmore."

John's too hurt, tired and pissed to smile, but he appreciates that Rodney isn't cowering in terror anymore, that he's staying on John's _not_ ruby heels, and acting as if he's fully committed to seeing things through. "Maybe the terminal would be a little easier," he suggests.

Rodney gives him a look, but hurries over, with only a few furtive looks over his shoulders.

Yeah, the bad guys are around here somewhere, though a few less of them, judging by the bodies out by the trailer rig. John suspects they're cleaning house, but didn't mention it to Rodney; there might be a lot more bodies as they go.

"Okay, according to the layout, the pipes from the chilling towers go into the bottom level and… there seems to be a vault of some kind. That should be our server farm, unless you can think of something else they'd have locked up here like Fort Knox?"

Studying the route Rodney's tracing, John also fixes the rest of the facility's layout into his mind. He's not sure whether Teyla is going to be with Kenmore or one of his goons -- isn't even sure where Kenmore's going to be and, no, he has absolutely no idea what Kenmore is here for. But he's here… well, someone is here who shouldn't be, that John is certain of.

He leads Rodney to a service stairwell, Rodney stopping him from opening the door and pulling out something that looks like a big PDA, something way too small to call a laptop, although it does seem to have a regular, if tiny, keyboard and a rectangular monitor when he snapped it open. John's not actually that clueless about computers, but this isn't something he's seen before, nor does he think that's a standard USB cable that Rodney's pulling out, not with alligator clips on it's end.

"I assume you didn't get that Radio Shack?" he asks quietly of the obvious hacker tool while he waits for Rodney to disable the security alarm.

Rodney just laughs.

It only takes a few seconds before Rodney's happy and gesturing for John to open the door. Paranoia or prudence, it doesn't really matter, since John isn't about to let Rodney go first into the unknown anyway.

The stairwell takes them down one level, to a service corridor that leads away perpendicular to the left and right from where they enter. It also has a hatch on the floor just in front of them, which should open into more stairs that will take them further down, well away from the normally traveled routes where John expects Michael has people patrolling. He gestures to Rodney that they're going down the hatch, and leans over to heave his side up.

"I think mine's locked," Rodney grunts as he can't get his half open. John grins and slides over. He doesn't make much of a production opening this side, not faking that it's difficult, but also not just slinging it back like he's Arnold or something. He's already afraid Rodney's thinking he's Rambo.

"Okay, now it looks like we're getting somewhere," Rodney claps his hands together as he looks down the spiraling steps that go down for more than a single level.

Before they head down, John picks up a heavy-duty wrench that's been left by an earlier repairman. He still has one gun, but very little ammunition left, and this might help him extend his effectiveness. If he's only going to get in a few shots … well, he has a certain someone that deserves every one.

They get down two and a half more levels and this time end up on a wide landing that overlooks a larger room that holds a series of pipes that, even from up here, John can see the ice patterns of frosty condensation formed on them; they've ended up inside the outer ring of one of the chilling towers, he supposes. Behind their stairs is a heavy metal door that obviously leads to more service conduits, while to the left is a bank of computers that look like something out of the sixties but with modern enough monitors. Rodney's so excited about them that he hasn't paid attention to the fact that the remaining two sides of their landing is open to a story or more drop, with stairs going down opposite, and only a thin, waist high railing to keep someone from falling over to the right.

"This looks like it controls the cooling system for the mainframe. Which should be…"

Again Rodney's using his fingers to trace something, but all John can make out is there are different colored lines, probably denoting different size pipes, or different things flowing through them. It looks more like a jet stream and temperature contour map than a power flow chart.

"Okay, I can just hack in here; I can trip an external alarm that should get an alert to O'Neil."

"Do it."

~~~~~

"Shit, what now?" Jack sighs as Teal'c knocks on the glass to get Jack's attention. They've gone almost eight hours without a new crisis, not that they've managed to get much control over their existing ones -- or find Kenmore yet. Jack pushes away from his desk and heads into the situation room. Sam, he's happy to see, is back at her station, while Walter is reconfiguring someone else's.

"We've got a problem, Jack" Mitchell gestures to something Daniel and the DHS gal are trying to dissect.

"The alarms just went off at Woodlawn," femme Sheppard shoots back over her shoulder to Woolsey.

"It's got to be him," Woolsey nods.

"What's Woodlawn?" Jack gripes; this far in to the crisis and they're _still _keeping secrets?

"It's NSA," Woolsey says sourly. "A secure facility outside of Baltimore.

"It's a fail safe that was built after 9/11 to back up all financial information," femme Sheppard offers a little more. "The moment the networks were hit, all the financial data automatically began downloading into those servers."

"Banks, Wall Street, corporate records, government funds, all of it, basically," Woolsey now sounds like it all belongs to him. "A backup for the accumulated wealth of America."

"All in one location?" Jacks knows he sounds incredulous, but Jesus …."What's Kenmore's angle?"

"Well, if he could get in," the woman offers, "he might try to transfer the data to a series of portable hard drives. He could then have access to those accounts from anywhere. Siphon off billions for himself and we'd have no way to trace it."

"Or knowing him," Woolsey sniffs, "he could erase it all and send us back to the Stone Age."

"Why in the hell wasn't I told about this before now!"

"Frankly it's above your pay grade," Woolsey says a little too smartly.

"_My_ pay grade? Then how the hell did _Kenmore_ find out about this?"

"It's his program. He designed it," Woolsey now scowls. "He knew that hacking your system last night would trigger the download."

"Well that's just fucking brilliant. You two? You two genius just stay out of my way," Jack snarls. He snaps his fingers to get Daniel's attention and gestures to the equipment room. Mitchell looks disappointed when Jack shakes his head at his raised brow, but he needs Mitchell to stay here on top of the updates. Teal'c follows Daniel to oversee the arrangements for their arms and armor, while Sam calls up one of the vans.

"Sir, a Hostage Response team will meet you in parking lot C," Sam starts in.

"That's not going to work," Mitchell frowns. "The roads out are completely blocked. DC is in total gridlock."

"Well, get us some helicopters."

"They've all been pulled by the Pentagon for search and rescue."

At least the DHS gal sounds apologetic.

Jesus. "Sam, find me some goddamn helicopters. And get with the Pentagon. They've got to have jets flying CAP. Have them send one over to Woodlawn and keep an eye on things till we get there."

~~~~~

"Let me see if I can get a better floor plan of this place," Rodney calls John over. "We should be here in tower seven --"

"Don't move. You -- get away from the terminal, now!" comes a voice from the opening door.

"Okay, okay," Rodney squeaks.

"We've been waiting for you," the guy with the gun coming up behind John says smugly.

"Yeah? I've been waiting for you too," John mutters. As the terrorist closes, John reaches back over his shoulder and grabs the guy's leading arm, complete with gun, and slings the guy over his body onto the metal floor of the landing. The gun goes off, firing into the system Rodney has been accessing, but Rodney's already moved back, leaving John to just worry about himself. But then Rodney's charging forward, trying to help. John surges up from his crouch, hoping to get to one of them -- either of them -- first, but the terrorist gets a backhand into Rodney, sending him back and over the railing with a thin, terrified scream. John doesn't even think as he grabs for the wrench he'd leaned against the terminals, bringing it up like a golf club, the guy's head his ball. The terrorist also goes flying backward, only he doesn't have a railing to break any part of his momentum, just the long series of steep steps to add further damage as he slides down.

"Rodney?" John can't see his geek, can't see any blood either, just a few sweeps and swipes disrupting the ice patterns as if Rodney tried to grab on and stop himself. He also eventually finds a hole down between a "U" of pipes and conduit, as if that portion of the floor that Rodney landed against was comprised of ceiling tiles instead of concrete or metal.

While John really wants to keep the wrench, the terrorist's gun still lays on the landing and John might even be able to find more clips for it; the guy is his next step anyway, either to finish him off or …

"Where's my daughter?" John holds the gun to the guy's knee. After experiencing an uncontrolled fall down the full length of the steps, the terrorist isn't too healthy, with a broken leg, John imagines, from the fall itself, and what looks like a broken collar bone from where John had teed off against him. He's not sure if the blood coming from the guy's mouth is because he bit or cut something on his little journey or from internal bleeding and, frankly, he doesn't give a shit. Other than hoping the bastard stays alive long enough to answer his questions.

_Lafazanos, check in. Steve, what's your status? _

And cue Kenmore. John searches under the terrorist's jacket and finds a handheld.

"Yeah, I think _Steve_ is on the way down to meet your girlfriend dickhead, hold on a minute though, it looks like he's coming around." John holds the walkie-talkie to Steve's mouth. "Your boss wants to speak to you, asshole."

"It's Sheppard he's on the forth floor and the hacker is --"

John aims his gun and fires, letting the sound of the shot override anything else Steve might want to say and, not so incidentally, letting Kenmore know he isn't fucking around any longer.

"Get all that, Michael? That's right. I'm on the fourth floor now, but I'm coming to get _you_."

He disconnects, then continues rifling through good ole Steve's pockets, coming up with a couple of clips and some plastic wrist restraints. That he quickly puts to good use.

"Don't move now, Steve. I'll try to remember to send a doctor."

~~~~~

"Kolya, if you kill that fucker, I'll give you Sora's full cut."

~~~~~

Rodney can hear John somewhere up above him. He's tempted to call out, but knows at this point he's only a distraction and hindrance to John. There's also the fact that he's landed in the anteroom of the vault, going by the steel bars in front of the six inch think door in front of him, not to mention the sophisticated cyber lock embedded at eye level right next to the fucking huge door. For a moment he's nervous about that, being at eye level might mean it operates on iris scanning technology, but no, the bad guys wouldn't have cracked that without bringing one of the operators down here, and the hack system they've left attached wouldn't be needed.

He drags himself to his feet, feeling only a hint of regret as he can hear John leaving the area up above. Having wrenched his arm pretty badly as he fell, Rodney's damn glad they've already unencrypted the lock, since he only has to punch a couple of keys to get the equipment to go through its operations again.

It takes less than a minute before there's a pneumatic hiss and the steel bars begin to retract, the big ass door then swinging opening automatically, as it's too massive and heavy for someone to actually pull open.

Inside, Rodney finds a room full of monitors, each filled with millions, maybe billions of names, some personal, many business and all with account numbers.

"Jesus fuck, he's going after the money,"

Michael (someone) has been here, as there is a prototype terabyte laptop jacked into one of the room's many terminals. On the screen of the laptop is Rodney's algorithm.

"Okay, please work," as he kisses the master cipher key he pulls out of his backpack for luck. He's never built a piece of code he didn't also create a backdoor to, but this is the kind of hack that brings down governments, and he's not sure what else Kenmore might have added to his code against just such a thing.

Yeah, there are a couple of new strings. Rodney doesn't think he has the time to unravel them, as it looks like the downloads are just about finished anyway. But he does have time to add a couple more.

~~~~~

_You coming to get me, John, is that the plan? _

For a moment John considers not answering.

"Yep, that's my plan."

_What makes you think I won't put a bullet in your daughters head right now? _

"Because you're scared of me."

_Is that right? You think I'm afraid of you? _

"Because otherwise she'd be dead already. You need a bargaining chip.

~~~~~

"Stop what you're doing. Hands up."

"If you kill me, you'll never get it open," Rodney shouts out as he lifts his hands.

"Move away, move!"

Rodney does so, then watches smugly as the bad guy peers over at what he's been working on. And sees the 128-bit block cipher lock that will have to be overcome before they can access anything.

~~~~~

_You know, John, I feel like we've gotten off on the wrong foot. And because of that, you think I'm the bad guy. But nothing could be farther from the truth. I'm the good guy here. I told them this could happen if they didn't prepare. Did I get a thank-you? No, I got crucified. Because they wouldn't listen. _

"Well, you've got their attention now, don't you?" John sneers.

_That's right. I am doing the country a favor. _

"By tearing it apart." He doesn't bother to hide his skepticism, his anger.

_Better me than some outsider, some religious nut job bent on Armageddon. Nobody wants to see _that _happen, John. Everything I've broken can be fixed. If the country is willing to pay for it. _

That's bullshit, John sneers to himself. He's damn sure it's _always_ been about the money.

_What, I shouldn't get paid for my work? I'm working my ass off here, John. _

"Then just sit tight, asshole. _I've_ got a check for you."

John smiles to hear Kenmore's sigh. He has mixed feelings over what he hears next.

_I can't talk to this guy. You talk to him, see if you can get him to focus. _

Dad?

"Hey Teyla."

_Now there are only five of them. _

~~~~~

_Hang on Teyla, I'm coming_, Michael hears Sheppard promise over the sound of his backhand and Miss Emmagan's stifled cry.

"Kolya, if you don't kill that son of a bitch, you won't even get your cut!"

The sound of the elevator dinging behind him better not be Kolya, as Michael is very, very ready to kill someone himself.

It is. But Michael stays his hand because although he is not dragging in Sheppard's dead body, he does have one live Rodney McKay.

"We've got a problem," Koyla growls.

"No, there's… there's actually no problem," McKay attempts to dissemble. "I think I just got off on the wrong floor.

Kolya keeps a blood-restricting grip on McKay's arm. Instead of a gun in his other hand, however, he's holding Tyrus' laptop. Radim comes over and takes it off of Kolya's hands at a gesture from Michael. Instead of then pulling out his gun, Kolya brings out a K-bar knife, but Michael is more concerned at Radim's frown.

"Oh wow, this is a mess."

"I'm truly impressed, Kenmore," McKay is still groveling. "Hacking every byte of financial data for the entire country would take weeks, unless you eliminated the congestion. That's what this fire sale was about, right? "That's fucking brilliant."

"Yes it is. Please be quiet," Michael snaps as he leans over Radim's shoulder to see what can be done. He needs only toss a look at Kolya and McKay's squealing.

"Can you crack his encryption?" he then asks Radim.

"Maybe, I mean, if I have enough time."

"Okay." That's encouraging, he thinks. "Take them with us, he gestures to Kolya and then to Teyla and the sagging McKay.

"Let's go."

Kolya repeats his command. The two hostages say nothing.

~~~~~

"Hey, Michael. You might want to start thinking about what you're going to want your headstone --" John growls into the handheld when too long has passed since Kenmore's gloated at him. "And what kind of coffin, or are you an urn kind of —"

Fuck! Gunshots again, coming from above him this time and John's really had it with all this shit. He jumps and rolls over the nearest pipes for cover, unable to keep a yelp completely silent as his shoulder clips one of them. They're fucking freezing, much colder than the temperature is outside which is uncomfortable enough, and all John's been wearing is a DC Metro sweatshirt one of the uniforms had loaned after he'd trashed his suit coat. His teeth would already be chattering but for the adrenaline he's been mainlining. Brushing the pipe, though, feels like he immersed his hand in a hole in a frozen-over lake, and damn if his arm isn't going numb.

He scuttles into a corner to get a bit more protection, and hears the sound of the guy dropping down to the floor at his level, now that John's removed himself from being target practice. More shots are fired, trying to get him through a ricochet or scaring him from cover. But John's played this kind of game before, against people maybe even more intent on killing him than Kenmore's guys. Hundred and twenty degree heat wasn't any more comfortable than what's likely ten here, although the sand did offer better footing than the thin sheen of ice.

~~~~~

Ladon's bringing all of his equipment on-line and trying to lose his stomach from the smell of blood and fear around him. He's in the jumpseat in the very rear of the van with his computer set-up, while Tyrus and Kolya have McKay and Sheppard's daughter next to them in back seats and Michael is riding in the front next to the driver, holding on to Tyrus' laptop and McKay's 128-bit encryption stopper. Ladon's trying very hard not to have to look to his right.

Fuck. "Michael, the Pentagon's just sent a F-35 to Woodlawn," his main screen shows him.

"Keep an eye on it. And --"

"Pulling down the go codes now."

"Seriously," Ladon overhears McKay whisper to the girl as he cracks the NATO grid. "You probably shouldn't antagonize them since they have all the knives and loaded guns."

"Will you just take a minute and dig deep for a bigger set of balls?" comes her soft retort. "Cause you're going to need them before we're through."

"Wow, I know that tone. It's just weird hearing it from someone with … breasts."

Ladon keeps his snigger to himself, doesn't look to see if Tyrus is also smiling. Kolya won't be; he doesn't have any sort of sense of humor, being a man only of orders, dedication and pride. While Kolya might respect the courage Miss Emmagan has displayed and can find, perhaps, some measure of respect for Sheppard in how he's thwarted them, Kolya will see McKay as simply a waste of air, a tool to be quickly used then tossed away. And his respect for Sheppard won't keep him from killing the other man, although it might stop him from too much play…

"FBI are in the air also," Ladon hijacks the communication. This, like the F-35, really isn't unexpected. "Their ETA to Woodlawn is fifteen minutes."

Fifteen minutes should see them approximately twenty miles away, and their own plane is only thirty five minutes from Woodlawn.

Ladon hears a snap of tie-wraps being cut next, and a swallowed groan from McKay, leaving him to believe Michael's signaled for him to be cut free.

"Fix it," comes Michael's order.

Ladon sneaks a quick peek and sees Michael thrust the laptop into McKay's bloodless hands.

"Why? You're just going to kill me if I fix it. I know that."

Sounds like McKay has found his balls.

The next sound is of flesh hitting flesh and twin bitten-off cries, male and female.

"Shit. I'm not going to do it."

"Kolya."

McKay's cries are louder, definitely more strident and full of pain, and the smell of blood becomes pervasive.

"No no no, shit. Stop!"

"Doran is coming pretty fast," their driver interrupts whatever Michael's having done.

"I'm sorry, what?" Michael sounds pissed at being interrupted.

"Something's wrong. Doran is coming up on us too fast."

"I don't think that's Doran," is Tyrus' contribution.

"No. That would be my dad."

~~~~~  
"Radek… Radek! John fumbles with the CB radio, still shaking from his climb down the side of a moving semi and his eviction of the driver. "It's John Sheppard, McKay's cop. Look I know you can hear me! This is your frequency, right? 666? Come on, goddamit! Pick up the fucking mike, Radek."

_Ah, nobody here by that name, sorry. _

Hacker, jerk off! "Fine, Warlock. I need you to do whatever it is you do to patch me through to the FBI. To Deputy Director O'Neil. You hear me?"

_Are you serious? You want me to intentionally open up comm-line to head of FBI Cyber Division? I don't think so. Not even Rodney is that good friend. _

"Radek, goddammit, They have my daughter!"

_Oh. Okay. Hold on. _

"Thank you." John's relief is short-lived, as he just manages not to swerve off the road, avoiding various abandoned cars. He's driven Humvees, Jeeps and even a convoy truck or two in his time, but this big rig is a bitch and a half; he knows he's already stripped several of its gears, will probably burn out the clutch if not also the brakes and maybe the engine with his clumsy handling. But he's keeping it going forward so far, keeping Kenmore's stolen hazmat van in sight, and when he can't shift down properly to slow enough to the avoid the obstacles in front of him, well at least this tough old bitch has the mass and power to just plow on through.

_Go for O'Neil. _ Although it's Jackson doing the talking.

"Its Sheppard. Get me O'Neil."

_Sheppard? _ The big man himself comes on immediately. _Where --_

"Kenmore is on 695, headed north in a hazmat van."

_Wait. Kenmore has left Woodlawn? We're headed there right now. _

"Yeah, and O'Neil? He's got my daughter," John warns the man, trusting he knows what John means with that, and won't call him off. "Hey, this hazmat thing is a government vehicle. So it should be LoJacked, right? Track that down and it should take you right to them."

_Give me the tag number. _

No extraneous questions or bullshit; John thinks he could like O'Neil… for a Fed.

"All right, hang on," and John pushes down on the accelerator. He's had to read shit on the ground going at a lot faster speeds in his past, and the government paints on their numbers so a blind man can read them anyway.

"Here it comes: golf tango five niner two November."

_I've got it Sheppard, thanks. Where is McKay? _

"They've got him too. Listen to me. I intend to get them out. But if something happens to me, you've got to send the cavalry in, you hear me? I mean everybody. Don't let that maniac keep my daughter, you hear me?"

_Sheppard, don't worry. _

"I want your word, O'Neil. She didn't do anything other than have her mother marry me. She's a fucking innocent."

_Yeah… yeah, you have it, John. _

"Sheppard out."

~~~~~

"I've got more chatter over the military bands. It's not the F-35 we need to worry about, but a damn Little Bird… an attack helicopter." Which might not be faster than the F-35, but would be a hell of a lot more maneuverable and could come down a lot lower, Ladon knew. He isn't sure of its armament, but since it's the kind of copter they send down into neighborhoods after warlords in Iraq and Afghanistan, he figures there'll be guns as well as missiles. And operators better than Bob turned out to be.

"Did you get the military codes? Ladon, did you get the fucking go codes?"

"Yes I got the codes," he tells Michael, trying to ignore the quake in his own voice.

"Can you connect me to the helicopter pilot?"

Fuck but he hates that tone in Michael's voice. It scares him a hell of a lot more than Kolya's scowl. "Uh… uh… yeah, isolating his radio. Sending him the authentication. He's designated AV-81."

Ladon catches Michael's nod. It's sent his way instead of Kolya's, so Ladon breathes a little easier even if it's only an acknowledgement instead of any sign of approval.

"AV-81, this is Marine airwing ATC."

_Go for AV-81. _

"Confirm terrorist vehicle has been located in your sector: big rig truck. Currently in pursuit of a hazmat vehicle."

_I see them ATC. _

Ladon isn't the only one who sees the Sheppard girl start to open her mouth; before she can say anything that could be overheard, Tyrus has his hand covering her face so tightly Ladon wonders if she can even breathe. Kolya simply shows McKay the knife that's dripping with McKay's blood to keep him quiet.

"You are authorized to engage and destroy."

Michael's tone is still even and perfect, but Ladon can see the relish in his expression.

_Copy that. AV-81 engaging. _

"I don't think daddy's coming, honey."

~~~~~

Teyla feels completely numb. She'd been held so that she was facing the back of the van, and so had a direct, if limited, view of the helicopter's first attack runs. Having grown up proud of John's military service, even if it had kept him away from them and had ultimately led to his and her mother's divorce, Teyla had read anything she could get her hands on about Air Force rotor pilots, and the kinds of things they'd do in places known and unknown. She'd even gotten addicted to some of the atrociously written Men's Action/Adventure books, knowing that while much of what had been written was crap and fabrication, they would still give her the clearest understanding of what it meant to be one of those guys despite all the inaccuracies and overload of heroics and testosterone. So she is very aware of what a MD Helicopters' AH-6 can do to the unarmored cab of a semi truck without being able to see its end.

What it did to the freeway and other vehicles behind them would probably take weeks if not months to correct.

Her feet are moving on automatic as she's pulled from the van and into a warehouse. She doesn't know where she is, doesn't really care, other than she knows she has to get out of here, or take the mother fuckers down by whatever means possible before she's taken down herself. They do not get to prosper (survive) this.

"We are leaving in three minutes," the guy in charge calmly informs the guy her dad had been protecting… McKay. "You have one."

"The rules haven't changed, Kenmore. You're going to kill me the minute I unlock it," McKay protests, despite the thick trail of blood that's' still winding down his sleeve and the fact that his torturer is about all that's holding him up.

Teyla kind of regrets mouthing off to him back there, because she's pretty sure it's not for her sake that he's standing up to them.

With a total lack of expression that's even scarier than his calm tone, Kenmore shoots McKay in the leg. Teyla can't help jumping, but notes that the guy who is holding on to her loosens his grip in his own surprise.

"Oh shit, I can't believe you --"

"McKay? Rodney? I really need you to pay attention," Kenmore leans over and pats McKay … Rodney on the cheek. "The rules can always change." Kenmore then neatly pivots, and it's Teyla who's got the gun pointed at her; the barrel close enough that she can see the faint wisp of smoke from its recent firing.

"Okay, wait."

"I'm going to shoot her in ten seconds."

"W-wait, wait, wait -- "

"Nine."

Teyla lifts her chin and refuses to close her eyes.

"I can't."

That's okay, Rodney, though she can't say the words outloud.

"Eight."

Kenmore merely looks bored.

"I can't, please --"

A shot sounds and Teyla flinches, but she doesn't feel any burst of pain and surely it would hurt, even if it was direct to her heart?

"Yaah! Okay! Okay, okay, okay."

"Six."

"Okay, just stop… stop. Stop I'm doing it. I'm doing it. Oh god."

No, Rodney.

But Teyla still won't speak the words. She's not sure she could live with Rodney's death on her conscience were their positions reversed, even if she knows she would only have to live with it for minutes.

"Feds are headed this way," Kenmore's computer guy suddenly interrupts.

"Get everything on the plane," Kenmore orders, and takes hold of Teyla himself, so that her captor can help load the equipment from the van.

"Four."

"Fuck, I'm doing it!"

Another gunshot. This time, though, it isn't even at Teyla's feet. She and Kenmore twist to see the computer guy falling backward, blood soaking his shirt front with alarming speed.

And John.

The heavy-breather who'd held her in the van is the next to fall.

"Dad." Teyla can't believe it. John looks like hell, looks like he's only just _escaped _from hell, with singes and burns, blood and bruises and he's only wearing a torn dress shirt despite it being ten degrees or so out. He also looks very, very determined. And pissed.

"Careful, John," Kenmore breathes into Teyla's ear, pulling her tight to use her for cover, but he's got several inches on her.

"Don't worry, Teyla --"

And Teyla isn't; John had a small arms marksmanship ribbon from the Air Force, and lost only to his partner in the city-wide police competitions. He'd taught her not only how to shoot herself, but how not to be afraid of a gun. Even in the hands of a mad man.

"-- everything is going to be all right --

Only the next shot isn't John's -- or even Michael's. She'd forgotten about Rodney and his torturer, hadn't thought to warn John and now it's too late. "John!"

John's fallen behind the side of the van, and once more Teyla doesn't know if he's alive or dead, and can only assume the worst.

"Hold this," Kenmore hands her off to the torturer.

There is no sign of McKay, and Teyla wonders if that means he's dead too.

She's too concerned with watching Kenmore stalk over toward where John had gone down to look around for McKay. The guy holding her is also similarly distracted.

Teyla takes her shot. Her hands may be tie-wrapped to her front, but she's already found a weak point or two previously in this guy, and an elbow to his gut once more puts enough space between them that she can reach the second gun he wears at his hip. Teyla doesn't waste the time aiming as she pulls it from the holster; just slips free the safety and fires. The shout of pain over her head tells her she's hit something, but the sudden constriction to her breathing as she's pinned back against his body and is made to lose her grip on the gun, means it wasn't anything vital.

It's enough to stop Kenmore for a few seconds, however, as he looks back over his shoulder to the two of them, his expression incredulous.

"Jesus Christ, Kolya! You got her? Are you sure? It was a nice effort though," he then directs to her.

"Rodney?" with a turn to his right and a few scattered shots sent that direction.

"Oh, shit, all right," comes from behind Teyla. Good, Rodney is still alive.

"Okay, okay I'm doing it. I know."

Teyla finally sees that John is alive too, can just make out that he's pulling himself across the floor. Without giving it any thought, Teyla snaps her foot out and kicks the gun she'd dropped his direction, before the goon holding her can stop her.

She's perfectly on target, knows that it will pass behind the van's tire and into John's hands, only Kenmore takes a stutter step over and plants his boot down on it before it can slide past him.

Teyla deflates in her captor's arms. She doesn't think she's made things worse -- can't imagine how she could make things worse -- but that's all only because things can't get worse.

Kenmore doesn't even kick the gun away as he turns back in John's direction, then leans over and begins to drag her dad up to his feet.

"John, would you do me a favor?" he's asking almost companionably. "I know the lights are beginning to dim, but if you could just hang on for a second --"

Teyla can see a lot more blood on John's body, although she's not sure where he's been shot. She's also hoping that his inability to stand on his own is him just faking it, that Kenmore's little dig is just a goad for her or for Rodney, but John looks really bad, looks really pale beneath the grime and although he's being forced to face her direction, his eyes are not tracking hers.

"-- as soon as Rodney's finished, I'm going to kill him and your daughter. And I would love for you to see that, John." Kenmore puts his gun to John's head.

"Goddammit Rodney!"

"Ten seconds, okay? Ten seconds. You'll have all your money, then you can just leave. No one else has to get hurt. Okay?"

Nice try, Rodney, Teyla thinks.

"Just a few seconds," Kenmore shakes John a little, who's sagging even as Kenmore's trying to prop him up. "Stay with me, Sheppard!"

Teyla has to close her eyes after Kenmore moves the gun to John's shoulder, obviously digging it in to where the first shot passed through given the sudden jerk, moan and lucidity that opens John's eyes wide.

"Stay. With. Me."

"Dad?" Teyla can't not watch, however, and can't keep the whimper from her tone. John's eyes meet hers finally, and she reads what she's always known and too often forgets. Love and pride in her, not just her accomplishments. Love, not just because she's Nancy's daughter and so kind of his, but that they'd be close even if they were simply two strangers with no ties but friendship between them.

"On _your_ tombstone it will read: 'always in the wrong place at the wrong time.'"

"Or how about, I can just kill _you _\--"

Even though she sees it, Teyla cannot believe that John's brought his hand up and forces Kenmore to pull the trigger. They both fall, the spread of blood increasing down John's chest and side, but as he drops away from Kenmore and tries to catch himself before he hits the concrete, Kenmore's body is fully exposed. And the spread of blood staining his shirt is coming from a much more vital location.

A second shot and Teyla jerks, falling herself. Yet it is the man holding her who is wounded and dying, as she now can see where McKay has tried to hide behind another vehicle and is holding another gun taken from the first man that had held her instead of the laptop. He's shaking

"Teyla?"

She catches herself painfully on her hip as she hits the floor, but it doesn't slow her as she scrabbles over to where John is collapsed against the well of the van.

"Jesus, are you okay? Dad? Are you okay?"

She knows it's a stupid question, knows his "Yeah, I'm fine," has meaning only in an ethereal sense, but …

"I knew you would come for me."

"Of course, I'd come for you. Sorry it took me so long, baby."

"Freeze," they are suddenly interrupted.

"No, hold on. They're okay."

"Ronon?" Teyla whispers as she sees John's partner coming in with a handful of Feds in their blue vests and jackets.

"He's okay too," the older, distinguished looking man says of poor Rodney -- calling off his people and also a couple that look like they have DHS jackets instead, that come racing out of a sedan that enters the warehouse from the opposite side.

"Oh, Jesus. John? Teyla?" the female DHS agent turns John and Teyla's direction.

"M-mom?"

"Fuck, help me up," John is breathing in Teyla's ear, laughing with her as the absurdity of at all. "Ah, no, I think I'll just stay here for a minute."

"John, you're out of your mind," she whispers back to him, holding on tight.

"What are you talking about?"

He sounds so affronted Teyla's not sure she can stop laughing.

"You shot yourself!" she chokes out.

"Yeah, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Don't tell Ronon or your mom that I did that though, okay?"

~~~~~

"You gonna say goodbye?" Ronon asks with a thrust of his chin toward the ambulance where Rodney is sitting.

"Should I put my hands up?" they can hear Rodney saying to the guy that looks like he's sucking on a lemon that Ronon identified as NSA.

"No, keep your hands down," the paramedic with the tag of Kellar is admonishing Rodney, even as the Woolsey character is wilting under the fierceness of the tiny woman's glare. "You can ask your questions or do your arresting after we've gotten him admitted."

"I'm just saying, he might die of shock on the way to the hospital, and then where would you be --

"Jesus, Ronon, you're on scene for all of five minutes. You do not get to judge, as you do not know what I had to go through from that guy -- Fine," John interrupts himself as the look from his partner. "All right. Yes. I'll be right back."

John eases himself off the back of his own ambulance, even allows Ronon to steady him, since it's the big guy's fault he's up and moving at this point. He's refused the morphine he'd been offered, because he knows he's got to give a preliminary debrief to O'Neil and, Jesus, Nancy, so he's hurting like a motherfucker, and that had been before he'd been shot… twice!

He's pretty sure he can safely resist the allure of jumping out of a moving car or a truck ever again.

He's not so sure he can resist the allure of a white hat hacker, though, of the certifiable genius that is one Rodney McKay and at some point, he'll have to ask Ronon what it was that had given him away since Ronon really had only come into this mess at the last minute and John hadn't had any opportunity to talk to Rodney before now thanks to the arrival of Ronon and the Feds. Somehow John suspected Ronon's knowledge had come from Teyla, but he wasn't sure about the source of her information either, unless it had been Rodney himself.

Which means he's probably not going to be shot down here.

"Hey."

"Oh, hey," Rodney comically lifts his head from where he was resting it against his chest at John's approach.

"How's it feel to be shot?"

"It actually feels great." Rodney gives him a wide grin. "Uh, she gave me some … what is it called? Mor…"

"Morphine," paramedic Keller pipes up with a chipper smile for the both of them.

"Yeah, morphine. It's great. You're great too --"

Keller giggles and gives John a too knowing look, leaving off packing up her supplies to step away and give them some privacy.

Like John's going to out himself anymore than he apparently already had with a bunch of Feds hanging around.

"So, you've got your merit badge now," he gives Rodney a nudge to get him to scoot over so that John can sit down beside him.

"Yeah… Hey, I don't know what that means."

"Boy Scouts, McKay?" John laughs. And hopes to god he's never been this loopy on morphine.

"Born in Canada," Rodney states proudly.

"Oh, well, it's okay. Forget the merit badge," John smiles as he leans against the side and does a little more fishing. "Chicks dig scars. I'm sure Katie will --"

"Nah, me and Katie did … didn't … did … Katydid! That's a kind of a grasshopper, you know," Rodney looks at him so earnestly. "She knows all about grasshoppers and ladybugs and bees because she's a botanist who also thinks her green thumb works for matchmaking."

"So you and Katie aren't?" John can't help but sound a little interested.

"She just loves my cat," comes the morose answer. "Mr. Mew. I didn't name him that. _That_ hideous name comes from my little sister. It's a gene that runs in the family, my mom named me Meredith. But I go by my middle name, Rodney. Or M. Rodney McKay. He never answers to Gort--"

What?

"-- not even when I have smoked salmon in my hands."

Oh, the cat. Wait? Meredith? His name being Meredith was real?

"I like smoke salmon."

"We'll have to skip the lemon. And no more McDonald's orange juice. I'm allergic to citrus."

John grinned. "I can do that."

\-- finis --


End file.
